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RylE                                        RET. 

DATE 
DUE 

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p~ — 

■•' 

1004 

Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2012  with  funding  from 

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http://www.archive.org/details/crocusfreshfloweOOhale 


"Lewis entered  the  festive  hall,  with  Louisa  leaning 
on  his  arm,  and  followed  "by  her  parents  " — Page  75 


3H- 
Hs\e 


THE   C 


T   CI 


A  FRESH  FLOWER 


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EDITED   BY 


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Illustrated  with  32  engravings  frora  original  designs 

NEW  YORK : 
EDWARD  DUNIGAN  &  BROTHER, 

151  fulto.n-street. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1649, 

By  Edward  Bdsioan  &  EROTHia, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Boutnern 
District  cf  New  York. 


REMARKS 


We  have,  after  much  search,  found 
a  new  flower  for  our  little  friends. 
Among  all  the  Annuals  there  has  nev- 
er before  been  a  Crocus.  The  real 
blossoms  of  this  pretty  flower  are  of 
different  colors — white,  blue,  and  yel- 
low. The  white  shall  stand  for  in- 
nocence and  love ;  the  blue,  for  truth 
and  industry ;  the  yelhiv,  for  obedi- 
ence and  piety.  All  these  beautiful 
lessons  are  taught  in  the  Stories  and 
Poems  of  our  Crocus. 


Vi  REMARKS. 

The  Stories  are  translations  from 
the  German :  the  writer,  Christopher 
Von  Schniid,  is  considered  one  of 
the  best  writers  for  the  young  in 
Europe.  The  Tales  here  given  are 
very  interesting  and  excellent. 

S.  J.  H. 


CONTENTS 


Page 
The  Crocus. — Miss  Gould x 

The  Rosebush 7 

The  Screech-Owl. — Mrs.  Howitt 93 

The  Redbreast 95 

My  Daughter. — Mrs.  Sigourney 131 

Farewell  to  the  Year. — Mrs.  Hale 133 

The  Forget-me-not 135 

The  Cakes 155 

The  Child's  Gift.— Mrs.  Osgood 183 

The  Cherries 185 

New-Year's  Eve 219 

Dumb  Girl 225 


THE  CROCUS* 
Br  Miss  HI  F.  Gould. 

Down  in  my  solitude  under  the  snow, 
Where  nothing  cheering  can  reach  me  ; 

Here,  without  light,  to  see  how  to  grow, 
I'll  trust  to  nature  to  teach  me. 

I  will  not  despair,  nor  be  idle,  nor  frown, 
Locked  in  so  gloomy  a  dwelling ; 

My  leaves  shall  run  up,  and  my  roots  shall 
run  down, 
While  the  bud  in  rav  bosom  is  swelling 


D 


Soon  as  the  frost  will  get  out  of  my  bed, 
From  this  cold  dungeon  to  free  me, 

I  will  peer  up  with  my  little  bright  head, 
And  all  will  be  joyful  to  see  me. 

*  This  pretty  flower  blooms  early  in  the  spring :  its 
colors  are  yellow,  purple,  and  white. 


X  THE  CROCUS. 

i 

Then  from  my  heart  will  young  petals  di- 
verge, 

As  rays  of  the  sun  from  their  focus ; 
I  from  the  darkness  of  earth  will  emerge, 

A  happy  and  beautiful  Crocus ! 

Many,  perhaps,  from  so  simple  a  flower, 
This  little  lesson  may  borrow — 

Patient  to-day,  through  the  gloomiest  hour, 
We  come  out  the  brighter  to-morrow. 


fewas  a  very  rich 
and  intelligent  mer- 
chant, and,  what  is 
still  better,  he  was  a 
most  virtuous  man. 
By  a  kind  of  affability  peculiar  to  himself, 
and  expressing  the  genuine  feelings  of  his 
soui  he  won  the  affections  of  all  his  neigh- 
bors ;  while  a  certain  unaffected  and  nat- 
ural dignity  of  manner,  in  all  his  words 


8  THE   ROSE-BUSH. 

and  actions,  gained  for  him  universal  re- 
spect. Though  advanced  in  years,  he  still 
had  the  marks  of  a  well-spent  }Touth ;  for 
his  complexion  was  so  fresh  and  youthful, 
that  strangers,  who  saw  him  for  the  first 
time,  always  took  him  to  be  ten  years 
younger  than  he  really  was.  His  dress 
was  unostentatious  and  plain,  his  favorite 
attire  being  a  coat  of  very  fine  dark-green 
cloth,  without  any  mark  whatsoever  to 
lead  one  to  suspect  his  enormous  wealth, 
except  a  single  costly  diamond  ring  which 
he  wore  on  his  finger.  His  house  was  a 
handsome,  well-built  mansion,  but  though 
he  could  afford  to  adorn  it  with  princely 
magnificence,  the  furniture  was  like  that 
of  any  ordinary  citizen,  and  even  some- 
what old-fashioned  ;  for  he  hated  expensive 
show,  and  never  w7ould  buy  extravagant 
articles  of  furniture,  because  he  deemed 
them  unsuited  to   a  person   in  his  rank. 


THE   ROSE-BUSH.  9 

The  sole  ornaments  of  his  house  (and  they 
were  really  valuable)  were  some  splendid 
paintings  by  the  great  masters.  The  or- 
der and  punctuality  with  which  he  super- 
intended his  extensive  business,  were  most 
exemplary  ;  he  was  so  upright,  moderate, 
and  faithful  in  all  his  engagements,  that 
every  person  found  a  pleasure  in  doing 
business  with  him. 

Some  persons,  indeed,  blamed  him  for 
employing  his  capital  in  many  trifling  con- 
cerns which  appeared  too  low  for  him,  and 
which  brought  him  much  trouble,  little 
profits,  and  even  sometimes  very  consid- 
erable losses.  But  his  sole  object  in  car- 
rying on  this  sort  of  business,  was  to  sup- 
port a  number  of  industrious  families,  who 
would  otherwise  be  left  without  bread,  and 
who  now  earned  under  him  a  comfortable 
livelihood.  He  considered  this  plan  of  giv- 
ing relief,  the  best  sort  of  charity.     But 


~—z] 


10  THE   ROSE-BUSH. 

he  was  most  liberal  in  his  donations  to 
those  poor  persons  who  could  not  work, 
and  who  were  ashamed  to  beg ;  and  he 
also  often  secretly  gave  very  large  sums 
of  money  to  families,  who  were  involved 
in  pecuniary  embarrassments  without  any 
fault  of  their  own.  No  wonder,  then,  that 
he  was  generally  esteemed  as  a  charitable 
man,  and  as  a  true  benefactor  to  his  kind ; 
though  he  was  no  favorite,  it  is  true,  with 
the  lazy  and  thoughtless  spendthrifts,  who 
sometimes  came  to  borrow  money  from 
him ;  because,  wishing  to  teach  them  a 
practical  lesson  in  economy,  moderation, 
and  industry,  he  always  had  ready  for 
them,  in  his  various  and  extensive  busi- 
ness, some  suitable  employment  or  other, 
by  which  they  could  support  themselves 
in  comfort,  if  they  pleased.  But  they  did 
not  relish  these  offers — and  accordingly 
hated  him  in  their  hearts.     He  had  lived 


THE  ROSE-BUSH.  H 

years  in  the  g:eatest  happiness  with  his 
wife,  who  was  in  every  respect  an  excel- 
lent woman.  It  was  not  for  her  beauty, 
though  she  was  very  beautiful,  nor  for  her 
wealth,  of  which  she  had  very  little,  that 
he  had  made  her  the  object  of  his  choice. 
Her  best  portion  and  strongest  recommen- 
dation in  his  eyes,  were  her  unaffected 
piety,  her  amiable  simplicity,  her  virgin 
modesty,  her  industry,  and  all  her  other 
domestic  virtues  ;  and  after  her  death, 
which  afflicted  him  sorely,  he  could  never 
think  of  marrying  a  second  time. 

Many  of  his  children  died  young,  and 
there  remained  to  him  but  an  only  son, 
Lewis,  who  was  now  about  twenty  years 
of  age,  and  who  was  the  true  counterpart 
of  his  father.  His  complexion  was  fair 
and  blooming;  his  figure  well  knit  and 
graceful ;  he  was  constant  in  all  his  reso- 
lutions, prudent  in  his  business,  affection- 


12  THE  ROSE-BUSH. 

ate  to  his  friends,  charitable  to  the  poor, 
blameless  in  his  morals,  and  full  of  rever- 
ence for  God,  and  for  all  that  should  be 
held  sacred  by  men.  He  was  the  sole 
pride  of  his  father's  heart,  and  an  orna- 
ment to  his  native  town.  At  the  time  at 
which  our  story  opens,  he  was  absent  in 
England,  whither  he  had  gone,  partly  on 
business,  and  partly  to  extend  the  sphere 
of  his  commercial  knowledge ;  and  his 
father  was  daily  expecting  his  return. 

One  evening,  as  the  rain  fell  heavily, 
and  the  wind  howled  through  the  streets, 
Mr.  Alkmar  was  sitting  in  his  comfortable 
parlor,  smoking  his  pipe  and  sipping  a  cup 
of  coffee.  Mr.  Wohlmuth,  his  head  clerk, 
who  had  been  his  schoolfellow  in  youth, 
and  whom  he  still  was  wont  to  call  his 
best  friend,  on  account  of  his  fidelity  and 
integrity,  was  sitting  with  him  in  the 
parlor,  and  both  were  planning  some  fes- 


THE  ROSE-BUSH.  13 

tive  rejoicings  for  the  return  of  Lewis. 
The  postman  entered  with  a  sealed  packet 
of  letters.  Mr.  Alkmar  opened  the  packet 
and  took  a  rapid  glance  at  its  contents. 
While  he  was  reading  one  of  the  letters, 
which  appeared  at  first  to  please  him 
very  much — his  color  suddenly  changed, 
and  the  hand  in  which  he  held  the  letter 
trembled  violently.  Wohlmuth  was  start- 
led. He  knew  well,  that  losses  in  trade, 
which,  though  very  frequent,  had  never 
disturbed  Mr.  Alkmar's  temper,  could  not 
be  the  cause  of  his  present  agitation. 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  what  is  the  matter 
with  you?"  exclaimed  Wohlmuth,  anx- 
iously. 

"  Alas,  read  this !"  answered  Alkmar 
with  a  sigh,  giving  him  the  letter.  He 
then  fell  back  on  his  sofa,  clasped  his 
hands,  and  raised  his  eyes  to  heaven  in 
the  deepest  affliction. 


14  THE  ROSE-BUSH. 

Wohlmuth  read  the  letter.  It  was  from 
a  commercial  correspondent  in  Hamburg, 
who  merely  mentioned  in  the  postscript 
the  wreck  of  a  ship,  and  that  ship,  though 
the  Hamburg  merchant  was  not  aware  of 
it,  was  the  very  one  in  which  Lewis  was 
to  return. 

This  news  was  a  thunderbolt  for  Wohl- 
muth. But  he  endeavored  to  console  his 
friend  Alkmar.  "  The  letter,"  he  re- 
marked, "  states  that  some  persons  were 
saved.  Perhaps  Lewis  was  among  the 
happy  few,  or  perhaps  he  was  not  in  that 
vessel  at  all.  Perhaps  the  kind  provi- 
dence of  God  threw  some  obstacle  in  his 
way,  that  detained  him  in  England,  and 
prevented  him  from  embarking.  We 
have  many  examples  of  the  gracious  in- 
terference of  our  good  God  to  avert  im- 
pending calamities  from  men." 

"  Dear  Wohlmuth,"  answered  Alkmar, 


THE  ROSE-BUSH.  15 

"  you  have  raised  a  slight  gleam  of  hope 
in  my  heart.  But,  I  fear,  it  will  soon  be 
extinguished.  We  must  soon  know  the 
whole  truth  of  the  matter." 

He  rang  the  bell,  and  ordered  the  ser- 
vant to  run  to  the  posthouse,  and  order 
an  express.  "  Tell  the  postmaster,"  said 
he,  "  to  give  the  courier  the  fleetest  horse 
in  the  stables.  The  letter  which  he  is  to 
carry,  will  follow  you  in  a  few  moments." 

Mr.  Alkmar  then  ordered  all  his  ser- 
vants to  inquire  of  the  different  mer- 
chants in  the  town,  whether  they  had 
received  any  more  particular  intelligence 
of  the  loss  of  the  vessel.  He  himself  sat 
down  and  wrote  without  delay  to  his  cor- 
respondent in  Hamburg.  When  the  ser- 
vants returned,  they  stated  that  the  ves- 
sel was  certainly  wrrecked,  but  that  eleven 
persons,  and  amongst  them  a  young  mer- 
chant, were  saved.     They  could  not  as- 


16  THE  ROSE-BUSH. 

certain  the  name  of  the  merchant.  Alk- 
mar  had  still  some  hope.  The  following 
day  was  spent  in  racking  suspense.  The 
courier's  return  was  watched  with  the 
most  intense  anxiety.  Alkmar  felt  a 
weight  of  sorrow  pressing  on  his  heart, 
and  was  obliged  to  summon  all  his 
strength  to  save  himself  from  sinking 
under  it.     "Father,"  he  prayed,  "if  this 


cup  do  not  pass  away  from  me,  if  I  must 
drink  it,  give  me  strength  and  courage  to 
bow  to  thy  holy  will." 


THE    ROSE-BUSH.  17 

As  Lewis  was  universally  esteemed  and 
beloved,  the  whole  city  anxiously  expect- 
ed the  courier's  return.  Lewis's  fate  was 
the  sole  topic  of  conversation.  The  an- 
swer, at  length,  returned — he  had  embark- 
ed in  the  ship,  but  his  name  was  not  among 
the  saved.  "  Gracious  God."  exclaimed 
Alkmar,  with  great  agitation,  "  it  was  then 
Thy  will !  Whatever  Thou  dost  is  for 
the  best.  I  humbly  submit  to  Thy  inscru- 
table, but  ever  wise  and  paternal  decrees !" 

His  sorrow  was  so  intense,  that  it  could 
not  vent  itself  in  tears.  He  shut  himself 
up  in  his  chamber,  in  silent  grief  to  avoid 
the  crowd  of  friends  and  relations  who 
came  to  console  him.  He  sought  his  con- 
solation from  God  alone. 

2* 


18  THE  ROSE-BUSH. 


CHAPTER  II. 

FULLER  PARTICULARS  ABOUT  LEWIS. 

Some  days  after  the  receipt  of  the  cer- 
tain intelligence  of  the  death  of  Lewis,  an 
old  sailor  presented  himself  to  Mr.  Alkmar. 
He  was  sitting  at  his  desk,  in  deep  mourn- 
ing, and  admitted  the  sailor  immediately. 
He  had  been  on  board  the  lost  vessel,  and 
was  able  to  give  Mr.  Alkmar  a  circum- 
stantial account  of  her  wreck. 

"  A  storm  burst  upon  us,"  said  the  sail- 
or, "the  like  of  which  the  oldest  of  our 
crew  had  never  encountered.  The  wind 
began  to  rise  after  nightfall,  and  drove  the 
ship  before  it  with  irresistible  fury.  We 
were  blown  from  our  course,  and  at  length 
could  not  tell  where  we  were.     Masses  of 


THE   ROSE-BUSH.  19 

black  clouds  covered  the  whole  heavens  : 
the  night  was  so  dark,  that  we  could  not 
see  our  hand  before  us.  A  few  hours  af- 
ter midnight,  we  suddenly  felt  a  shock 
wrhich  threw  all  of  us  off  our  legs  ;  a  fear- 
ful crash  told  us  that  we  were  wrecked. 
The  waves  rushed  in  from  all  sides  on  the 
vessel :  in  a  few  moments  she  was  dashed 
to  pieces.  The  helmsman,  myself,  seven 
other  sailors,  and  two  passengers,  who 
were  good  swimmers,  gained  the  top  of 
the  rock  on  which  the  vessel  split.  The 
captain,  and  all  the  other  souls  on  board, 
were  drowned. 

"  Young  Mr.  Alkmar,"  the  sailor  con- 
tinued, as  he  brushed  the  tears  from  his 
eyes,  "  was  lamented  by  us  all.  The  sail- 
ors, in  particular,  were  devotedly  attached 
to  him,  he  was  so  kind  and  affable.  He 
conversed  familiarly  with  us,  asked  us 
many  questions  regarding  the  whole  man- 


20  THE  ROSE-BUSH. 

agement  of  the  ship,  and  often  gave  us  re- 
freshment, when  he  saw  us  fatigued  with 
duty.  There  was  not  one  of  us,  I  am 
certain,  who  would  not  have  laid  down 
his  life  for  him,  if  it  were  possible  to  save 
him.  But  we  had  not  time,  even  to  think 
of  it.  The  very  evening  before  the  storm 
rose,  I  saw  him  sitting  on  the  deck.  Even 
still,  I  think  I  see  him.  Wrapped  in  his 
dark  blue  coat,  he  was  sitting  on  a  bench, 
reading  a  letter,  and  a  letter- case  of  red 
morocco  was  lying  by  his  side.  He  ap- 
peared deeply  affected  ;  perhaps,  he  had 
some  foresight  of  what  was  impending. 
That  was  the  last  we  saw  of  him.  I 
found  the  letter-case  among  the  fragments 
of  the  ship.  Here  it  is.  There  are  sev- 
eral letters,  and  a  bank-note  in  it.  That 
is  the  reason  I  was  anxious  to  present  it  to 
yourself." 

With  a   trembling   hand,   Mr.   Alkmai 


THE  ROSE-BUSH.  21 

took  the  letter-case,  opened  it,  and  found 
his  own  letters  to  his  son.  "Poor  Lewis," 
said  Mr.  Alkmar,  "  he  kept  all  my  letters 
carefully,  and  always  carried  them  with 
him ;  and,  I  am  sure,  he  often  read  them, 
as  I  desired  him." 

The  affectionate  father,  who  up  to  this 
moment,  could  not  shed  one  tear,  now,  at 
the  sight  of  the  letters,  burst  into  a  flood 
of  tears,  that  relieved  his  oppressed  heart. 

"Weep,  weep,"  said  the  sailor,  as  his 
own  tears  fell  fast  oyer  his  weather-beaten 
cheeks,  "  weep,  for  he  deserves  your  tears. 
Oh!  that  he  were  here,  and  that  I  were 
in  his  place  in  the  bottom  of  the  sea ! 
He  could  still  be  of  use  in  the  world,  but 
what  good  am  I — a  decrepit  old  man  ?" 

The  sailor  then  finished  his  sad  story. 
"  The  morning  after  our  shipwreck,  we 
found  ourselves  on  a  naked  rock,  with  no 
object  in  sight  but  the  boundless  sea.     As 


22 


THE  ROSE-BUSH. 


we  had  nothing  to  eat  or  drink,  but  the 
shellfish  and  some  rain-water,  which  we 
found  in  the  hollows  of  the  rocks,  we 
should  certainly  have  died  of  hunger,  had 
not  God  sent  a  ship  in  sight.     She  sailed 


at  no  great  distance  from  the  rock,  and 
perceived  our  signal  of  distress — some 
canvass  which  we  raised  on  the  only  spar 
which  was  saved  from  the  wreck.  We 
were  taken  up  and  carried  to  Hamburg, 


THE   ROSE-BUSH.  23 

bringing   with   us    from   the   lost   vessel, 
nothing  but  the  news  of  her  wreck." 

Mr.  Alkmar  took  the  bank-note  out  of 
the  letter-case,  and  gave  it  to  the  sailor. 
"  Accept  this,"  said  he,  "  as  a  return  for 
your  love  to  my  son,  and  for  the  honesty 
with  which  you  have  restored  it.  My 
book-keeper  will  change  it  for  you :  keep 
it  as  a  provision  for  your  old  age."  The 
sailor  was  filled  with  joyful  surprise  at 
this  generous  offer,  and  with  tears  in  his 
eyes  returned  thanks  to  God  and  Mr. 
Alkmar. 

Mr.  Alkmar' s  grief  for  the  loss  of  his 
son  began,  after  some  days,  to  prey  on 
his  constitution.  His  health  gradually 
gave  way.  One  Sunday  morning,  after 
returning  from  church,  he  found  himself 
ill.  He  had  not  time  to  throw  off  his 
clothes,  but  sunk  exhausted  on  a  sofa. 
Wohlmuth,   who   had   accompanied   him, 


24  THE  ROSE-BUSH. 

hoped  that  the  attack  would  not  be  se 
vere,  and    assured    Mr.   Alkmar   that   he 
would  soon  be  better. 

"  Dear  Wohlmuth,"  said  Alkmar,  "  my 
hopes  in  this  world  are  over.  But  I  have 
consoling  hopes  above.  Yes :  I  shall 
soon  be  better — away  in  a  better  world. 
I  have  this  morning  settled  the  affairs  of 
my  conscience  with  heaven,  and  strength- 
ened myself  for  the  long  journey  with 
the  bread  of  life.  I  hope  my  eternal  in- 
terests are  in  order — I  must  now  arrange 
my  worldly  concerns.  Sit  down  at  the 
table,  and  take  the  pen,  ink,  and  paper 
I  will  dictate  my  last  will  to  you,  and  we 
shall  then  have  it  signed  and  sealed  by  a 
notary  and  witnesses.  The  great  wealth 
which  God  has  given  me,  should  all  go  to 
my  relations,  but .  from  my  knowledge  of 
them,  it  would  be  a  real  curse,  and  not  a 
blessing  to  them.     Still,  though  they  are 


THE   ROSE-BUSH.  25 

not  nearly  related  to  me,  they  shall  have  a 
considerable  share ;  but  only  on  certain 
conditions,  which  shall  prevent  them  from 
squandering  it,  and  compel  them  to  make 
a  good  use  of  it.  The  principal  rights 
must  be  vested  in  their  children :  but  if 
the  children  do  not  promise  well,  and  are 
not  well  conducted,  they  never  shall  touch 
one  penny  of  my  money.  You,  my  dear 
Wohlmuth,  and  all  my  faithful  servants, 
who  have  helped  to  make  my  fortune, 
must  be  well  provided  for.  The  schools 
and  the  poor  shall  not  be  forgotten. 
Write  quickly — I  think  I  have  not  much 
time  to  live."  Alkmar  then  began  to  dic- 
tate, but  on  a  sudden  he  stopped  short, 
and  exclaimed,  "  Merciful  Heaven !  what's 
the  matter  with  me  ? — I  feel — the  Lord 
comes  and  calls  me  away.  He  will  dis- 
pose of  this  affair  which  I  cannot  con- 
clude. He  will  turn  all  things  to  the  best 
3 


26  THE  ROSE-BUSH. 

for  those  who  are  concerned."  Here  he 
stopped  suddenly — moved  his  lips,  as  if  in 
prayer,  and  then  said  with  a  faltering 
voice,  "  Dear  heavenly  Father,  take  me  to 
Thyself,  and  unite  me  in  Thy  presence 
above  to  my  beloved,  who  are  gone  be- 
fore me — my  virtuous  wife — my  good  son 
Lewis,  and  my  other  children." 

With  these  words  he  expired.  It  was 
an  attack  of  apoplexy  ;  for  it  was  by  this 
easy  death,  God  took  him  rapidly  to  him- 
self. Every  person  in  the  house  rushed 
to  the  apartment  on  hearing  Wohlmuth's 
cries.  No  pen  could  describe  their  sor- 
row on  beholding  their  beloved  master 
lying  in  his  mourning  dress  on  the  sofa, 
already  a  corpse — his  head  sunk  helpless- 
ly on  Wohlmuth's  breast !  But  the  ap- 
pearance of  the  pallid  face  of  their  bene- 
factor consoled  them.  He  looked  so  calm 
and  beautiful,   so   pious  and   happy,  thai 


THE   ROSE-BUSH.  27 

they  all  devoutly  clasped  their  hands.  He 
looked  as  if  a  smile  of  joy  beamed  on  his 
features,  for  having  brought  his  earthly 
course  to  a  blissful  end. 

"Truly,"  remarked  Wohlmuth,  "he  has 
sown  abundantly,  and  is  now  gone  where 
he  can  reap  a  plentiful  reward." 


28  THE  ROSE-BUSH. 


CHAPTER  III. 

AN  UNEXPECTED  APPARITION. 

The  death  of  old  Mr.  Alkmar,  like  the 
news  of  the  death  of  his  son,  was  sin- 
cerely felt  as  a  calamity  by  the  whole 
city.  His  relations  alone  were  not  much 
grieved  ;  on  the  contrary,  they  were  trans- 
ported with  joy  for  the  rich  inheritance 
that  fell  to  them  so  unexpectedly.  While 
thousands  shed  tears  at  the  funeral  of  Mr. 
Alkmar,  they  could  scarcely  restrain  their 
delight ;  and  many  of  them  rubbed  their 
eyes  with  their  white  handkerchiefs,  as  if 
they  were  drying  their  tears,  though,  in 
reality,  they  did  so  only  to  make  others 
believe  that  they  were  crying. 

It  was  reported  that  the  inheritance  was 


THE  ROSE-BUSH.  29 

enormous.  It  amounted,  in  fact,  to  sev- 
eral hundred  thousand,  perhaps  a  million 
of  florins.  But  when  they  came  to  divide 
it,  and  inspect  the  books,  papers,  and  seal- 
ed desks — great  as  it  was,  it  was  too  small 
for  these  avaricious  relatives.  They  treat- 
ed the  faithful  old  clerk,  Wohlmuth,  most 
unkindly.  So  far  from  giving  any  present 
to  him,  or  to  any  of  the  other  faithful  ser- 
vants, for  whom  Alkmar  would  have  pro- 
vided, had  he  lived,  they  discharged  them; 
and  of  all  the  charitable  aid  which  Alk- 
mar used  to  dispense  weekly  to  the  poor, 
not  one  penny  continued  to  be  paid. 

The  relatives  too  soon  began  to  quarrel 
among  themselves,  and  a  lawsuit  appeared 
almost  inevitable.  But  the  desire  of  get- 
ting instant  possession  of  the  money  pre- 
vailed. They  agreed  among  themselves 
on  a  division  of  the  property ;  and  then 
their  sole  thought  was,   how  they  could 


30  THE  ROSE-BUSH. 

best  enjoy  their  good  fortune.  One  of 
them  began  immediately  to  build,  another 
purchased  a- landed  property,  a  third  gave 
up  his  little  trade  to  enjoy  his  ease,  and 
purchased  a  carriage  and  horses.  So  little 
did  they  think  of  Alkmar,  that,  though  they 
were  called  upon  by  the  authorities  of  the 
town,  they  would  not  even  raise  a  monu- 
ment over  his  grave.  They  ordered,  it 
is  true,  several  models  for  a  splendid  mon- 
ument ;  but  they  would  never  agree  which 
model  to  select — because  they  were,  in 
reality,  anxious  to  have  some  excuse  for 
not  raising  any  monument,  that  they  might 
avoid  the  expense  of  its  erection. 

The  largest  share  of  the  inheritance, 
including  the  house  and  garden,  fell  to  a 
Mr.  Pracht.  The  house  was  commodious 
and  well  built,  though  somewhat  in  the  old 
style,  but  Mr.  Pracht  gave  orders  at  once 
to  have  it  rebuilt  and  decorated  with  the 


. 


THE  ROSE-BUSH.  31 

most  costly  ornaments.  The  dining-room, 
in  particular,  was  enlarged,  richly  painted, 
and  adorned  with  large  mirrors  in  gilt 
frames,  and  with  magnificent  crystal  chan- 
deliers. As  soon  as  the  house  was  finish- 
ed,  Mr.  Pracht  gave  all  the  relations  a 
great  supper  and  a  splendid  ball.  He  had 
promised  this  when  they  were  dividing  the 
property.  He  wished,  as  he  remarked,  to 
inaugurate  his  new  house  in  this  sumptu- 
ous fashion.  The  ballroom  was  illumina- 
ted with  a  hundred  wax  lights,  which  were 
reflected  from  the  large  mirrors,  tinting 
the  gleaming  crystal  with  all  the  hues  of 
the  rainbow,  and  lending  a  dazzling  lustre 
to  the  rich  silver  plate  on  the  table.  All 
the  heirs  of  the  good  Alkmar,  who  had 
been  so  suddenly  enriched  by  his  death, 
were  assembled,  dressed  in  the  most  bril- 
liant style  ;  the  ladies,  and  particularly  the 
younger  ones,  were  in  the  highest  spirits, 


32  THE   ROSE-BUSH. 

as  this  was  the  first  occasion  on  which 
they  appeared  in  their  new  splendor,  after 
laying  aside  their  mourning.  Mr.  Pracht, 
who  had  given  a  large  sum  of  money  for 
the  little  word  von,  (which  in  that  country 
is  used  to  designate  persons  of  rank,)  and 
who  was  now  styled  Mr.  von  Pracht,  and 
his  wrife,  Mrs.  von  Pracht,  assumed  dig- 
nified airs,  and  endeavored  to  receive  their 
guests  in  the  most  fashionable  manner. 
Miss  von  Pracht,  their  only  daughter,  was 
decked  out  like  a  princess,  and  assumed  all 
the  attitudes  and  positions  that  could  ex- 
hibit her  rich  diamonds  to  the  best  advan- 
tage. After  an  entertainment  of  all  but 
princely  splendor,  the  company  adjourned 
to  the  dancing-room,  and  the  ball  was 
opened. 

A  burst  of  music  resounded  through 
the  ballroom,  and  dancing  was  kept  up 
without  interruption  till  midnight.     The 


THE   ROSE-BUSH.  33 

great  clock  of  the  castle  was  in  the  act  of 
striking  twelve,  when,  suddenly,  horror 
and  alarm  seized  upon  the  entire  com- 
pany— the  music  stopped  short — the  dan- 
cers stood,  as  it  were,  rooted  in  their 
places;  a  deathlike  silence  spread  through 
the  saloon,  interrupted  only  by  the  solemn 
stroke  of  the  clock,  or  by  an  occasional 
exclamation  of  terror  or  astonishment — 
for  lo,  the  folding  doors  of  the  saloon  flew 
suddenly  open,  and  the  form  of  young 
Alkmar,  dressed  in  the  deepest  black,  and 
pale  as  death,  stalked  into  the  apartment, 
and  passed,  silent  and  solemn,  with  slow 
steps  and  indignant  looks,  through  the 
midst  of  the  company  !      / 

Had  he  actually  and  really  returned 
from  the  grave,  the  horror  and  alarm 
could  not  have  been  more  intense  :  all 
present  felt  a  chill  of  deathlike  horror 
even  after  they  were  satisfied  that  it  was 


34  THE  ROSE-BUSH. 

his  rea?  living  self;  and  deeply  as  they 
felt  the  propriety  and  even  necessity  of 
feigning  to  rejoice  at  his  return,  and  to 
receive  him  affectionately,  they  could  not 
do  it ;  the  loss  of  the  inheritance  was  too 
terrible — the  awaking  from  their  happy 
dream,  from  the  intoxication  of  enjoy- 
ment, was  too  sudden  and  too  frightful. 
Mr.  yon  Pracht  flung  himself  into  a  seat ; 
Mad  am  von  Pracht  fainted  away  and  was 
carried  to  a  sofa;  her  daughter  fell  down 
in  a  swoon. 

The  generous  young  man  had  not  im- 
aginsd  that  his  appearance  could  have 
thrown  the  company  into  such  fearful 
alarm ;  in  mercy  to  them,  therefore,  he 
wit!  drew ;  but  long  after  he  had  closed 
the  doors  behind  him,  they  continued  to 
ask  "  Are  we  awake  or  dreaming  ?  Was 
it  really  he,  or  an  apparition  from  the 
dead?" 


THE  ROSE-BUSH  35 

The  entire  company  hurriedly  sepa- 
rated, with  pale  and  gloomy  faces  and  un- 
steady steps. 


30  THE  ROSE-BUSH 


CHAPTER  IV. 

LEWIS'S     ESCAPE. 

The  disappointed  heirs  could  not  con- 
ceive how  young  Alkmar,  whom  the 
whole  city  regarded  as  no  more,  and 
whom  the  courts  had  even  formally  de- 
clared to  be  dead,  could  dare  to  come 
to  life  again,  and  terrify  them  by  his  un- 
expected appearance.  Indeed  his  return 
must  have  seemed  to  them  very  wonder- 
ful, but  it  had  taken  place  in  a  very  natural 
manner. 

On  the  fearful  night  when  the  ship 
foundered,  Lewis  had  clung  to  a  floating 
spar,  and  in  a  short  time  the  wind  and 
waves  drifted  him  to  a  distance  of  many 
miles.  The  storm  subsided,  and  was  suc- 
ceeded by  a  gentle  breeze.     Lewis,  who 


THE   ROSE-BUSH.  37 

had  clung  to  the  spar  with  all  the  energy 
of  a  man  struggling  with  death,  now  in 
some  degree  revived ;  he  sat  erect  upon 
the  spar,  but  when  the  morning  dawned 
he  could  not  see  any  thing  but  the  sea 
and  the  sky.  That  whole  day  he  spent 
upon  the  sea,  drenched  to  the  skin,  and 
without  a  particle  of  food ;  and  as  sunset 
approached,  he  saw  nothing  but  death  be- 
fore him.  But  he  was  sincerely  pious  ; 
his  good  parents  had  brought  him  up  in 
the  fullest  reliance  upon  God's  holy  provi- 
dence ;  and  his  pious  mother,  in  particular, 
had  instilled  her  own  generous  and  trust- 
ful piety  into  his  youthful  heart.  In  this 
hour  of  trial,  therefore,  he  prayed  fer- 
vently for  safety,  or  at  least  for  strength 
from  above  to  meet  his  fate  with  manly 
resignation  to  God's  holy  will.  "  Save 
me,  Almighty  God !"  he  cried,  "  or  if  it  be 
not  thy  holy  will  that  I  see  my  father  once 


38  THE  ROSE-BUSH. 

more,  do  thou  comfort  him  and  grant  me 
courage  to  die !" 

But  lo,  at  that  very  moment,  he  spied 
in  the  far  distance  the  white  sail  of  a 
ship — he  prayed  with  fresh  fervor — in  the 
gleam  of  the  evening  sun  the  ship  came 
nearer  and  nearer — he  was  seen,  and 
rescued  from  his  perilous  position  ;  and  he 
thanked  God,  his  deliverer,  as  fervently 
as  he  had  prayed  to  Him  in  his  hour  of 
peril. 

After  he  had  also  expressed  his  gratitude 
to  the  captain  and  the  seamen,  and  re- 
freshed himself  with  food,  he  told  the  his- 
tory of  his  shipwreck,  and  entreated  the 
captain  to  put  him  ashore  upon  the  near- 
est land.  The  captain,  whose  name  was 
Anson,  said  to  him  : 

"  My  dear  young  friend,  I  would  gladly 
do  so,  but  you  see  this  is  an  English  ship- 
of-war,  and  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  de- 


THE   ROSE-BUSH.  39 

part  a  hair-breadth  from  my  appointed 
course.  You  must,  therefore,  accompany 
us  to  America,  unless  we  should  meet  an- 
other ship  upon  our  voyage." 

The  ship  arrived  safe  at  one  of  the 
smaller  American  islands  to  which  she 
was  bound,  but  Lewis  was  deeply  morti- 
fied when  he  discovered  that  there  was 
not  a  single  ship  ready  to  sail  to  any  part 
of  the  world.  The  captain,  who  was  a 
very  religious,  moral,  and  well-conducted 
man,  endeavored  to  pacify  him. 

"  What  does  it  matter  after  all,"  said  he, 
"  if  you  have  to  spend  some  time  here  ? 
I  myself  shall  have  to  spend  a  year  here 
guarding  this  island,  till  I  shall  be  relieved 
by  another  ship.  Make  a  virtue  of  neces- 
sity. There  is  no  situation  in  which  God's 
holy  providence  places  us  that  is  not  use- 
ful and  salutary  for  us,  if  it  be  not  our  own 
fault.     Your  residence  here  may  prove  to 


40  THE  ROSE-BUSH. 

be   of  the  happiest   influence  upon  your 
whole  future  life." 

The  captain  provided  for  him  a  neat 
apartment,  which  looked  out  upon  the  sea, 
and  took  care  that  he  should  not  want  foi 
any  thing.  Lewis  made  several  excur- 
sions through  the  island,  for  the  purpose  of 
seeing  it.  It  was  covered  with  intermina- 
ble plantations  of  sugar-canes  and  coffee, 
in  which  an  immense  number  of  negro 
slaves  were  busily  employed  ;  and  he  saw 
here  and  there  magnificent  country-houses. 
The  rich  and  highly- cultivated  plains  were 
encircled  by  rocks  and  forests  which 
reached  almost  to  the  clouds. 

But  before  long  the  rainy  season  set  in ; 
the  captain  was  engaged  on  duty  from 
morning  till  night,  and  Lewis  had  to  sit 
whole  days  in  his  lonely  apartment,  through 
the  window  of  which  he  could  see  noth 
ing  but  the  heavy  clouds  and  the  stormy 


THE  ROSE-BUSH.  41 

sea.  To  beguile  the  tedium,  he  asked  for 
books,  and  discovered  that  there  was  not 
a  single  German  book  in  the  island.  He 
was  very  glad  that  he  understood  English, 
and  asked  the  captain  for  a  few  English 
books  to  amuse  him. 

"I  have  not  a  single  such  book,"  said 
the  captain,  "  but  I  will  bring  you  a  book, 
which,  to  a  man  of  your  disposition,  can- 
not fail  to  bring  the  richest  and  most 
agreeable  entertainment,  and  which,  in- 
deed, in  this  respect,  infinitely  surpasses 
all  the  books  in  the  world.'' 

He  brought  him  an  old,  but  very  beau- 
tiful edition  of  the  Bible. 

"  This  heavenly  book,"  said  he,  "  was 
given  to  me,  as  a  keepsake,  by  a  most  be- 
loved relative,  a  venerable  old  man,  who 
died  a  bishop  in  Ireland.  He  cautioned 
me   that   there  were   many  who  did    not 

read  it  with  a  sincere  desire  for  truth  and 

4* 


[ 


42  THE   ROSE-BUSH. 

edification,  but,  full  of  self-blindness  and 
perversity,  abused  it  to  their  destruction. 
But  for  you,  dear  Alkmar,  I  have  no  such 
apprehension,  and  I  can  fearlessly  say  to 
you,  as  was  said  of  old  to  Augustine — 
'  take  and  read.'  " 

Lewis  used  to  read  several  chapters 
every  day,  and,  circumstanced  as  he  then 
was,  separated  from  the  concerns  of  busi- 
ness and  every  source  of  distraction,  this 
divine  book  made  a  deep  impression  upon 
him  :  he  was  enchanted  and  deeply  moved 
by  the  heavenly  spirit  which  it  breathed ; 
his  heart  was  penetrated  with  the  love  of 
our  Lord  and  Redeemer ;  he  felt  himself 
improve  every  day  in  piety  and  virtue. 

When  the  mild,  clear  weather  returned, 
the  captain  usually  came  home  towards 
evening,  and  used  to  bring  Lewis  with 
him  to  shoot ;  but  as  he  was  very  fond  of 
botany,  he  spent  far  more  time,  while  they 


THE  ROSE-BUSH.  43 

ranged  through  fields  and  forests,  or  over 
hill  and  valley,  in  searching  for  plants  than 
in  pursuing  game  ;  and  when  he  discov- 
ered some  new  plant  hitherto  unknown  to 
him,  he  would  burst  out  into  exclamations 
of  wonder  at  the  multiplicity  and  variety 
of  the  designs  of  God.  Lewis,  too,  took 
a  great  and  increasing  interest  in  this  in- 
nocent enjoyment.  "  You  must  set  more 
seriously  to  work,"  said  the  captain  ;  "  I 
will  lend  you  a  very  solid  work  upon  bot- 
any, which  will  open  for  you  a  closer  view 
of  this  glorious  province  in  God's  crea- 
tion." Accordingly,  Lewis  set  about  the 
study,  formed  a  collection  of  plants  for 
himself,  and  discovered  therein,  every  day, 
new  evidences  of  God's  power,  wisdom, 
and  goodness. 

"  It  was  here  in  this  island,"  said  he  to 
the  captain,  "  that  I  learned  to  know  God 
better  in  his   word,  the   Holy  Scripture, 


44  THE  ROSE-BUSH. 

and  in  his  works,  Nature ;  and  surely  to 
know  God  and  to  love  him  is  our  weight- 
iest and  most  profitable  business.  To 
this  business,  which  forms  the  soul  and 
prepares  it  for  eternal  happiness,  all  earth- 
ly commerce,  which  caters  but  for  the 
wants  of  the  body,  must  yield  the  palm. 
You  were  right,  Mr.  Anson,  in  saying 
that  it  was  not  without  wisest  designs 
God  brought  me  hither.  My  residence  in 
this  island  will  be  a  blessing  to  me  for  the 
rest  of  my  life." 

At  last,  after  many  months,  a  ship  ar- 
rived from  New  York,  in  America,  and  was 
to  return  thither  in  the  following  week. 
The  captain  advised  Lewis  to  go  in  this 
ship  to  New  York. 

"It  is  true,"  said  he,  "you  are  thus 
going  further  from  your  native  country, 
but  in  New  York  you  will  easily  find  op- 
portunities of  going  to  London,  and  there 


THE   ROSE-BUSH.  45 

are  ships  sailing  thence  almost  every  week 
to  Hamburg." 

Lewis  was  sensible  of  the  soundness  of 
this  advice,  but  he  felt  himself  in  great 
embarrassment.  He,  the  son  of  a  very 
rich  merchant,  was  literally  (what  he  had 
never  deemed  possible)  without  a  single 
penny.  The  evening  before  his  departure, 
therefore,  he  was  sitting  at  table  in  such 
deep  melancholy,  that  the  captain  asked 
him  what  was  the  matter.  Lewis  told 
him,  that  he  did  not  know  how  he  should 
undertake  this  long  journey,  without  a 
penny  in  his  purse. 

"  Oh !  is  that  all ?"  asked  the  captain ; 
"that  is  already  provided  for." 

He  counted  out  in  gold  to  his  wonder- 
ing friend,  a  considerable  sum  of  money, 
which  he  had  ready  prepared.  "  Your 
receipt,"  said  he,  "will  be  enough  for  me." 

"  What !"  said  Lewis,  "  will  you  trust 


46  THE  ROSE-BUSH. 

me,  whom  }tou  took  into  your  ship  a  poor 
cast-away,  with  so  much  money  ?  You 
know  nothing  of  my  connections,  but  from 
my  own  mouth." 

"  I  know  your  principles,"  said  the  cap- 
tain, "and  that  is  sufficient.  I  would 
give  you  more  if  I  had  it ;  however,  this 
will  enable  you  to  reach  London.  If  I 
would  not  trust  such  a  man  as  you,  I  had 
rather  renounce  all  intercourse  with  man- 
kind. But,  indeed,  you  will  do  me  a 
favor  by  accepting  this  money,  and  re- 
paying it  in  London  to  my  aged  mother, 
who  is  dependent  on  me  for  support. 
Visit  the  good  woman  in  London,  and 
give  her  this  letter." 

Lewis  promised  to  get  from  a  com- 
mercial friend  in  London,  and  pay  over 
to  the  captain's  mother,  not  only  this  sum, 
but  all  that  he  had  already  expended  in 
providing  for  him. 


THE   ROSE-BUSH.  47 

At  parting  in  the  morning,  the  two 
friends  cordially  embraced  one  another. 
Lewis  set  sail,  and  though  it  was  a  very 
circuitous  route,  in  the  end  reached  Lon- 
don. He  immediately  repaired  to  his 
friend,  a  most  upright  merchant,  in  whose 
house  he  had  lived  during  his  former  resi- 
dence in  London.  The  merchant  was 
struck  dumb  with  astonishment  when  he 
saw  Lewis,  whom  he  had  believed  to  be 
dead,  walk  into  his  apartment  full  of  life. 
But  Lewis's  sorrow  was  still,  still  greater, 
when  he  heard  the  death  of  his  dear  father. 
His  grief  was  beyond  description.  He 
stayed  only  to  draw  upon  the  merchant  for 
the  necessary  funds — paid  to  the  captain's 
mother  double  the  sum  which  her  son  had 
advanced  to  him — provided  himself  with 
mourning,  and  sailed  by  the  first  ship  to 
Hamburg.  There  he  took  the  mail,  and,  at 
last,  arrived  late  at  night  in  his  native  city. 


48  THE  ROSE-BUSH. 

It  was  with  a  heavy  heart  he  went 
through  the  streets  to  his  father's  house. 
He  thought  he  should  find  it  silent,  and 
in  deep  affliction.  The  glaring  windows, 
therefore,  were  a  bitter  sight  to  him ;  and 
the  boisterous  mirth,  the  gay  music,  and 
the  merriment  of  the  dancers,  wounded 
his  lacerated  heart  still  more  deeply.  He 
could  not  refrain  from  presenting  himself 
unannounced,  and  putting  an  end  to  this 
unseemly  confusion  ;  and  hence,  his  sud- 
den appearance  in  the  saloon. 


THE  ROSE-BUSH.  49 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE    FATHER'S    GRAVE. 

Lewis's  first  walk,  the  next  morning, 
was  to  the  graveyard,  to  seek  out  his  be- 
loved father's  tomb.  It  was  not  very  many 
years  since  the  old  man  had  settled  in  the 
city,  and  hence  he  had  not  any  family 
burial-place.  Lewis  wandered  for  a  long 
time  among  the  graves.  It  was  a  lovely 
morning,  but  he  hardly  observed  it.  "  It 
is  wonderful,"  thought  he,  "that  I  cannot 
find  my  father's  tomb,  though  he  is  already 
more  than  a  year  dead.'5 

The  grave-digger  was  working  at  a  new 
grave.     Lewis  went  up  to  him — 

"Friend,"  said  he,  "  will  you  be  so  good 
as  to  show  me  the  gravestone  of  the  late 
Mr.  Alkmar  ?" 


50  THE   ROSE-BUSH. 

The  grave-digger  was  a  loquacious  old 
man,  and  did  not  recognise  Lewis.  "  I 
will  show  you  his  grave,"  said  he,  striking 
his  spade  into  the  newly-dug  earth,  "  but 
there  is  no  gravestone,  I  am  sorry  to  say. 
The  heirs  have  not  raised,  and  I  fear  will 
not  raise  any  to  him.  They  have  already 
forgotten  him — the  good  old  man  !" 

The  scalding  tears  poured  down  Lewis's 
cheek  ;  he  followed  the  grave-digger  to  the 
grave — it  was  covered  with  a  nice  green 
turf,  and  a  rose-bush,  the  most  beautiful 
Lewis  had  ever  seen,  was  growing  upon 
it ;  a  number  of  buds  and  full-blown  roses 
gleamed  through  the  dark-green  leaves ;  a 
thousand  dewdrops  hung  upon  the  leaves 
and  flowers,  and  sparkled  in  the  morning 
sun.  The  rose  was  in  most  beautiful  or- 
der— not  a  withered  branch,  not  even  a 
frayed  leaf  could  be  discovered  upon  it. 

Lewis  stood  a  while  with  clasped  hands, 


THE   ROSE-BUSH.  51 

and  his  tears  dropped  fast  upon  his  father's 
grave.  The  sight  of  the  rose,  however, 
was  a  slight  consolation  to  him,  and  cheer- 
ed him  somewhat.  He  prayed  silently  for 
a  long  time,  thanked  his  father  for  all  the 
affection  he  had  shown  him,  and  prayed 
that  they  might  meet  in  heaven.  At  last, 
he  inquired  of  the  grave-digger  who  it  was 
that  had  planted  the  pretty  rose-bush  on 
the  grave. 

"  Oh !"  said  the  grave-digger,  "  it  was  a 
sweet  good  girl.  It  was  Miss  Louisa, 
daughter  of  old  Wohlmuth,  who  was  Mr. 
Alkmar's  book-keeper.  She  was  greatly 
hurt  that  her  dear  departed  master  should 
not  have  even  a  slab  to  mark  his  grave. 
•'O!  that  wre  were  rich!'  she  said:  'he 
should  have  the  finest  tomb  in  the  whole 
graveyard ;  but,  as  it  is,'  she  continued 
sorrowfully,  '  I  will  even  do  what  I  can — I 
will  plant  a  little  rose-bush  upon  the  grave. 


52  THE   ROSE-BUSH. 

Though  it  be  not  as  costly  as  marble,  it  is 
not  a  whit  less  well-meant ;  and,  perhaps, 
there  is  many  a  generous  heart  which  it 
may  touch,  more  than  if  a  statue  of  mar- 
ble were  in  its  place,  especially,  when  they 
learn  what  a  noble  man  he  was  whose 
grave  it  marks.5  Early  in  February,  she 
bought  a  rose-bush,  and  brought  it  here. 
With  her  tender  hands  she  took  the  spade, 
which  she  borrowed  from  me,  dug  up  the 
earth  with  many  a  tear,  and  planted  the 
rose.  With  her  own  hands  she  arranged 
the  green  sods,  which  she  carried  hither 
with  the  assistance  of  her  brothers.  You 
see  how  far  it  is  from  the  graveyard  to 
the  river  ;  she  often  brings  water  from 
thence  to  water  the  rose  ;  and  she  brought 
an  earthen  pitcher  here  for  that  purpose, 
which  she  keeps  concealed  yonder,  under 
the  tombstone.  Every  Sunday  evening, 
and  frequently  on  week  evenings  also,  she 


THE  ROSE-BUSH.  53 

comes  here  with  some  of  her  little  broth- 
ers and  sisters,  and  her  tears  often  bedew 
the  grave.  Ay,  many  a  time  it  went  to 
my  heart  to  see  her!  There  are  many 
who  visit  their  living  friends  as  long  as 
they  have  any  thins;  to  bestow ;  but  the 
old  man  can  no  longer  give  them  any 
thins;,  and  vet  they  still  come  here  where 
his  bones  repose — they  are  truly  grateful 
hearts  !" 

As  Lewis  listened  with  great  interest, 
the  grave-digger  continued. 

"  It  would  have  been  happy  for  honest 
old  Wohlmuth  and  his  family  had  Alkmar 
lived  longer ;  he  never  would  have  suffer- 
ed them  to  know  want ;  but  it  was  God's 
will  that  both  the  old  man  and  his  worthy 
son,  who  is  said  to  have  been  as  s;ood  as 
his  father,  should  leave  the  world  almost 
at    the    same    time.     Never   would    these 

two  good  men  have  thrust  their  trusty  ser- 

5* 


54  THE  ROSE-BUSH. 

vant,  with  his  wife  and  children,  out  of 
doors,  as  the  hard-hearted  heir  has  done. 
And,  how  true  it  is  that  '  sorrow  never 
comes  alone !'  The  poor  book-keeper  had 
vested  his  little  savings  in  his  master's 
business,  where  it  was  accumulating  for 
him.  But  the  heirs  brought  all  sorts  of 
charges  against  the  good  honest  man — 
brought  him  before  the  court,  charged 
him  with  embezzling  money,  and  at  last 
Mr.  Pracht  sequestrated  Wohlmuth's  cap- 
ital. The  old  man,  meanwhile,  receives 
no  interest,  and  in  the  end  will  never  see 
his  capital  more.  The  daughter's  needle 
is  now  the  sole  resource  of  the  numerous 
family.  The  father  cannot  any  longer 
write  as  well  as  formerly,  for  his  sight  is 
failing.  The  mother's  health  is  never 
quite  strong,  and  the  rest  of  the  children 
are  too  young  to  earn  much  as  yet. 
Meanwhile,    however,    they    get   through 


J 


THE  ROSE-BUSH.  55 

the  world  honorably  by  the  daughter's  in- 
dustry, and  she  embroiders,  too,  in  first- 
rate  style.  A  few  days  ago  I  saw  some  of 
her  work  ;  she  came   here  to   the   grave, 


and  then  went  down  to  the  river  for 
water,  to  water  the  rose-bush  ;  her  little 
sister  remained  sitting;  here,  in  the  mean 
time,  with  a  small  covered  basket  in  her 


56  THE  ROSE-BUSH. 

lap.  As  we  are  all  curious,  I  asked  to 
see  what  she  had  in  the  basket,  but  the 
little  thing  would  not  let  me ;  meanwhile, 
Louisa  came  back,  and  the  child  com- 
plained of  me  to  her  ;  Louisa  smiled,  and 
showed  me  a  piece  of  embroidery  which 
she  had  finished,  and  was  carrying  to 
some  noble  lady  or  other,  for  whom  it  had 
been  ordered.  It  was  roses  embroidered 
upon  white  silk,  and  it  is  incredible  how 
she  could  bring  it  to  such  perfection  with 
the  needle.  As  I  am  an  honest  man, 
the  roses  and  buds,  and  even  the  green 
leaves,  were  as  beautiful,  ay,  more  beau- 
tiful than  those  here  upon  the  bush. 
They  could  not  be  painted  more  per- 
fectly !" 

Lewis  had  listened  attentively  to  the 
whole  story,  and  then  plucked  a  rose-bud 
from  the  tree  upon  the  grave. 

"My  kind,  dear,  lost  father!"   said  he, 


THE  ROSE-BUSH.  57 

"  I  had  hoped  that  on  my  return  to  my 
paternal  home  thou  wouldst  press  me  to 
thy  fatherly  heart ;  but,  alas,  it  is  now 
mouldering  under  this  turf.  I  will  place 
in  my  bosom  this  rose  which  has  sprung 
up  from  thy  mortal  remains  ;  let  it  wither 
there,  as  all  my  joys  on  earth  have  wither- 
ed and  decayed !" 

He  dropped  a  tear  upon  the  flower,  and 
placed  it  upon  his  heart. 

He  then  gave  the  grave-digger,  to  his 
great  amazement,  a  gold  piece ;  asked  him 
to  describe  the  street  and  the  house  in  the 
suburb  where  the  Wohlmuth  family  had 
taken  their  little  lodgings,  and  bent  his 
course  thither. 


58  THE  ROSE-BUSH. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE    WOHLMUTH    FAMILY. 

The  report  of  Lewis's  return  had  al- 
ready filled  the  city,  and  had  even  pene- 
trated to  Wohlmuth's  secluded  abode. 
He  went  out  immediately  to  seek  for 
more  detailed  intelligence,  and  returning 
overjoyed  with  a  confirmation  of  the 
happy  tidings,  stood  telling  it  all  in  the 
middle  of  his  family,  forgetting  in  his  joy 
to  lay  his  hat  and  stick  aside.  Louisa 
sat  idle  at  her  embroidery-frame ;  the 
needles  of  her  two  little  sisters  who  sat 
beside  her  (at  other  times  so  industrious) 
were  at  rest ;  one  of  the  two  boys  stuck 
his  pen,  as  he  had  seen  his  father  do,  be- 
hind his  ear;    and   the  other,  instead  of 


THE   ROSE-BUSH.  59 

looking  at  his  book,  which  lay  open  before 
him,  sat  with  his  eyes  riveted  upon  his 
father's  face.  The  mother  stood  listening 
for  a  full  quarter  of  an  hour,  with  the 
milk-pottage  (her  children's  breakfast)  in 
her  hand  ;  and  it  never  occurred  to  her 
that  the  pottage  was  cooling,  or  that  it 
would  be  more  convenient  to  lay  the  dish 
upon  the  table.  Wohlmuth  concluded  his 
tale  by  thanking  God  aloud,  and  only  re- 
gretted that  he  had  not  been  able  to  find 
Lewis,  and  that  no  one  could  tell  him 
whither  he  was  gone.  It  had  never  oc- 
curred to  the  good  man  to  look  for  him  in 
the  churchyard. 

Wohlmuth  was  still  speaking,  when  the 
door  opened  and  Lewis  walked  in.  They 
all,  at  first,  grew  pale  with  joyful  alarm, 
and  then  burst  into  tears  of  joy.  The  old 
man  ran  to  him  and  clasped  him,  sobbing, 
to   his  breast ;    the  mother  and  daughter 


60  THE  ROSE-BUSH. 

seized  his  hands  and  bedewed  them  with 
tears  ;  the  rest  of  the  children  clasped  his 
knees,  or  hung  upon  his  clothes — they  al- 
most went  wild  with  joy.  "  Is  it  you, 
Lewis  ?"  cried  Louisa.  "  O  Father  in 
heaven,  what  a  happy  sight !" 

"  Ah,  that  our  dear  master  were  alive  to 
see  it !"  cried  the  mother.  "  Yet  still,  ye 
little  ones,  a  new  sun  is  rising  for  you, 
wThich  will  warm  you  by  its  rays,  and  in 
which  you  shall  grow  and  flourish !" 

"  I  have  lived  lono;  enough  now,"  said 
the  old  father.  "Now,  O  Lord,  let  thy 
servant  depart  in  peace  since  my  feeble 
eyes  have  witnessed  this.  I  am  content 
now,  if  such  be  God's  holy  will,  to  become 
blind  henceforth." 

At  last  even  the  little  ones  found  their 
speech.  "  Thanks  to  God,"  they  cried, 
"  that  you  are  alive  once  more.  But  how 
did  you  get  back  out  of  the  sea  ?" 


THE   ROSE-BUSH.  61 

Fred,  who  had  just  been  reading  about 
Arion,  the  harper,  whom  a  large  dolphin 
had  taken  upon  his  back  and  carried  safe 
to  land,  thought  that  some  such  friendly 
dolphin  must  have  shown  the  same  good 

service  to   Lewis.      Frank,  who   knew  a 

i 

little  of  natural  history,  said  it  was  well 

that  some  whale  had  not  eaten  him  up  ; 

and  the  little  erirls  teased  him  to  know  if 

he  had  brought  them  no  pearls  or  coral  out 

of  the  sea. 

Lewis    sat    down,   and  inquired  about 

the  last  days  of  his  beloved  father.    Wohl- 

muth  told  him  at  full  length  all  that  he 

knew,  and  they  all  wept,  for  the  generous 

man,  tears  no  less  genuine  than  those  of 

Lewis   himself.     The   old   man  then  told 

the  history  of  the  property,  and  how  harsh, 

selfish,  and  unfeeling  the  conduct  of  the 

heirs,  and  especially  of  Mr.  Pracht,   had 

been.      More    than    ah    hour   passed,    as 
6 


62  THE  ROSE-BUSH. 

though  it  had  been  but  a  moment ;  Lewis 
assured  them  all  of  his  affection,  promised 
to  return  soon  and  improve  their  condi- 
tion, and  then  went  back  to  the  city,  to 
pay  some  visits,  and  to  transact  some  ne- 
cessary business. 


THE   ROSE-BUSH.  63 


CHAPTER  VII. 

MR.  VON"    PRACHT   AND    HIS    FAMILY. 

Duetng  this  time  very  different  scenes 
were  passing  in  Mr.  von  Pracht's  house ; 
he,  his  wife,  and  his  daughter  Lucy,  to- 
gether with  an  old  widowed  aunt,  who  had 
a  great  name  for  prudence,  spent  the  whole 
night  together  in  the  ballroom  after  the 
luckless  banquet,  engaged  in  planning  the 
best  course  to  be  pursued. 

"  Nothing  in  the  whole  world  could  be 
more  dreadful  to  me,"  said  Mr.  von  Pracht, 
'•'  than  the  return  of  that  lad ;  I  had  rather 
the  house  had  fallen  on  our  heads  and 
crushed  us  all  to  atoms.  I  am  becrsfared 
if  I  must  give  up  the  property.  What  we 
have  spent  already  is  twice  more  than  all 


G4  THE   ROSE-BUSH. 

we  were  worth  before — we  have  less  than 
nothing — we  are  worse  than  beggars. " 

"  Oh !  heavens !"  exclaimed  his  wife, 
"  must  we  sell  our  four  beautiful  bays, 
and  must  I  go  on  foot  to  the  theatre  like 
the  common  rabble  ?  I  can  never  endure 
that." 

"  You  shall  be  saved  the  trouble  of  go- 
ing there  at  all,"  her  husband  answered ; 
"  we  must  now  support  ourselves  for  a 
whole  week  on  what  the  theatre  would 
cost  for  one  night." 

The  tears  stood  in  Lucy's  eyes,  as  she 
gazed  anxiously  on  her  diamond  ring. 
"  Oh,  dear  !"  said  she,  "  must  I  part  with 
this  beautiful  ring  ?  No,  no,  young  Alk- 
mar  will  be  gallant  enough — he  will  even 
be  proud  to  leave  me  his  mother's  orna- 
ment, since  it  has  once  come  into  my  pos- 
session." 

"Sillv   creature,"   her   father   retorted, 


,       THE  ROSE-BUSH.  65 

"how  can  you  feed  yourself  with  such 
hopes  ?  Ring  and  jewels,  and  gold  and 
silver,  and  house  and  gardens,  and  capital, 
all  must  be  given  up — all  is  over  with  us." 
"  What  good  can  repining  do  ?"  asked 
the  aunt,  assuming  her  wisest  air.  "  I 
have  a  plan :  a  marriage  may  set  all 
things   right ;    marriages  often   bring  not 

DO-7  O  O 

only  comedies  but  even  the  fiercest  wars 
to  a  happy  issue.  What  if  our  Lucy 
should  marry  young  Alkmar,  and  thus 
things  could  go  on  smoothly  in  the  old 
course  r 

Mr.  von  Pracht  shook  his  head  pen- 
sively. Mrs.  von  Pracht  said  he  would 
scarcely  marry  a  young  lady  without  a 
fortune  ;  but  the  vain  daughter  exclaimed, 
with  an  air  of  triumph,  "  Be  not  alarmed, 
dear  mother ;  before  four  weeks  are  over 
he  will  be  kneeling  at  my  feet  and  begging 

the  honor  of  my  hand.     It  is  true,  he  is 

6* 


G6  THE  ROSE-BUSH. 

somewhat  too  grave,  and  (shall  I  say  it  ?) 
too  old-fashioned,  and  rusty  in  his  tastes. 
That  was  his  character  long  before  he 
went  to  England.  He  is  very  exact,  and 
is  not  the  man  to  allow  much  indulgence 
to  a  wife ;  still  he  is  a  handsome  man, 
and,  as  matters  stand,  I  see  there  is  no 
chance  left  but  to  bite  the  apple,  sour  as 
it  is." 

Being  better  acquainted  with  the  fables 
of  Pagan  mythology,  than  with  the  pre- 
cepts of  the  Christian  religion,  she  had  ap- 
peared at  the  ball  in  the  character  of 
Flora — the  goddess  of  flowers — and  had 
decked  herself  gorgeously  with  artificial 
flowers  of  every  hue,  and  costly  jewellery. 
She  stood  before  the  glass,  viewing  herself 
with  an  air  of  the  greatest  complacency, 
and  exclaimed,  ';  The  thing  is  all  settled ! 
He  can  never  resist  me  !" 

Morn  was  just  breaking  before  they  re- 


THE  ROSE-BUSH.  67 

tired  to  rest ;  but  though  they  were  ac- 
customed to  such  hours,  they  were  too 
much  agitated  now  to  be  able  to  sleep. 
In  a  few  hours'  time  they  were  together 
again,  consulting  on  what  was  best  to  be 
done. 

They  resolved  to  excuse  as  well  as 
they  could  the  strange  reception  they 
gave  Alkmar  yesterday,  by  urging  their 
great  fright,  on  seeing  what  they  thought 
was  an  apparition,  which  froze  up  all  their 
feelings  ;  they  were  now  to  melt  down 
into  kindness,  and  to  load  him  with  flat- 
teries. Mr.  von  Pracht  was  just  pro- 
posing a  splendid  banquet  in  honor  of  the 
happy  return — when  Lewis  himself  sud- 
denly entered.  All  rose  and  ran  to  meet 
him,  and  made  most  extravagant  demon- 
strations of  joy  for  his  wonderful  return. 
The  aunt  told  him  of  the  great  banquet 
intended   for    his   honor;    and    Mr.   von 


68  THE   ROSE-BUSH. 

Pracht  affected  to  be  displeased  with  her, 
for  having  robbed  him  of  the  happiness  of 
giving  young  Alkmar  an  agreeable  sur- 
prise. 

Lewis  did  not  reject  the  proposal ;  but 
he  insisted  expressly  that  he  himself  should 
be  the  host,  and  that  he  should  have  full 
liberty  to  invite  any  friends  he  might 
think  proper.  He  required,  moreover, 
that  the  festival  should  be  deferred  a  fort- 
night at  least,  as  he  wished  to  devote  that 
time  to  filial  sorrow  for  his  beloved  father; 
and  then  to  have  it  followed  by  another 
festival,  on  which  all  the  affections  of  his 
heart  and  the  happiness  of  his  future  life 
were  set. 

Mr.  von  Pracht  and  his  wife  readily  as- 
sented to  these  arrangements,  and  Lucy, 
with  a  sly  look,  whispered  in  her  aunt's 
ear,  "  Do  you  notice  any  thing  ?"  From 
that  moment  her  attentions  to  young  Alk- 


THE   RO^E-BU^H.  60 

mar  were  so  marked,  and  indeed  obtrusive, 
that  whether  he  would  or  not,  he  could 
not  but  hold  her  in  the  most  hearty  con- 
tempt. Still,  for  the  present,  he  strove  to 
repress  his  feelings,  and  the  vain  young 
woman  regarded  her  conquest  as  secure, 
looking  forward  to  the  coming  festival  as 
her  bridal  day. 


70  THE  ROSE-BUSH. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

L.OUISA    WOHLMUTH. 

The  morning  of  the  eventful  day  at 
length  arrived.  Towards  evening  Lewis 
visited  the  old  book-keeper's  cottage,  and 
invited  him,  his  wife,  and  his  daughter,  to 
take  a  walk.  Louisa  asked  a  few  mo- 
ments to  dress,  but  he  insisted  that  she 
should  go  as  she  was — dressed  in  her  plain, 
simple  check  gown. 

When  they  approached  the  churchyard, 
Lewis  said  they  should  go  in  and  see  his 
father's  grave.  Louisa's  heart  throbbed. 
Lewis  had  not  as  yet  said  one  word  re- 
garding the  rose-tree,  and  the  modest  girl 
was  afraid  that  he  would  now  discover 
how  grateful  she  had  been,  and  what  rev- 


THE   ROSE-BUSH.  71 

ere  nee  and  love  she  had  shown  to  his  fa- 
ther's memory.  Walking  up  to  the  grave 
with  them,  he  took  off  his  hat,  and  re- 
mained for  a  considerable  time  standing  in 
silence.  All  were  silent — nothing  was 
heard  save  the  whispering  of  the  evening 
breeze  through  the  leaves  of  the  rose-tree, 
or  the  rustling  of  a  fallen  leaf  as  it  rolled 
over  the  grave.  The  tears  stood  in  their 
eyes. 

At  length,  Lewis,  in  a  tone  of  the  deep- 
est emotion,  addressing  Louisa,  said,  "  The 
first  ray  of  comfort  that  fell  on  my  soul, 
when  I  had  heard  of  my  father's  death, 
arose  from  the  sight  of  that  rose-tree,  which 
your  hands  planted  here.  I  respected  your 
excellent  disposition  from  my  earliest  youth 
— I  learned  now  to  value  them  more  high- 
ly than  ever.  You  have  always  taken  an 
interest  in  my  welfare,  and  your  rapturous 
joy  for  my  safe  return,  has  clearly  proved 


72  THE  ROSE-BUSH. 

the  sincerity  of  your  feelings.  It  is  now  a 
fortnight  since  we  met ;  and  during  that 
time,  my  feelings  can  scarcely  have  re- 
mained a  secret  to  you — what  I  am  going 
to  say  cannot  surprise  you.  Were  my 
father  alive  now,  I  would  lead  you  into  his 
presence,  and  say  to  him,  '  Here  is  the 
chosen  companion  of  my  life — give  us 
your  blessing ;'  but  since  he  is  dead,  I 
bring  you,  dearest  Louisa,  to  his  grave, 
which  is  a  sacred  spot  for  you  as  well  as 
for  me,  and  here,  I  beg  the  happiness  of 
your  hand,  and  the  blessing  of  your  vir- 
tuous parents." 

Old  Wohlmuth,  who  had  never  dreamed 
of  such  good  fortune,  was  so  surprised  that 
he  could  not  utter  a  syllable.  The  mother 
burst  into  a  flood  of  tears.  Louisa  herself 
was  at  once  amazed,  and  almost  overpow- 
ered with  joy.  "  Do  you  forget,  Lewis," 
at  length  stammered  Wohlmuth,  "  do  you 


THE  ROSE-BUSH.  73 

forget  that  you  are  worth  almost,  a  million 
of  money,  and  that  this  poor  child  has 
nothing — absolutely  nothing  ?" 

"  If  you  have  no  objection/'  said  Lewis, 
"I,  for  my  part,  am  perfectly  happy.  You 
see  that  I  have  made  no  account  of  money 
in  making  my  choice  ;  and,  in  truth,  the 
hundredth  part  of  what  I  have,  would  be 
more  than  enough  to  support  us  happily. 
My  father  always  taught  me  to  value  vir- 
tue more  than  money  ;  but  it  was  only 
when  I  was  thrown  upon  the  wide  sea, 
that  I  became  fully  convinced  that  virtue 
is  better  than  gold.  Louisa's  heart  is  worth 
more  than  a  million."  He  then  plucked  a 
rose  and  put  it  in  her  hair.  "  These  flow- 
ers," said  he,  "  with  which  she  has  decked 
my  father's  grave,  shall  be  her  bridal  or- 
nament— they  are  portion  enough.  Dear 
parents,  give  us  your  blessing." 

The  father  and  mother  were  so  deeply 


74  THE  ROSE-BUSH. 

moved,  that  they  could  scarcely  articulate 
their  blessing.  "  God  bless  you,  dear  chil- 
dren !  what  happiness  has  He  not  kept  for 
our  old  age !  How  good  He  is  to  us ! 
May  you  both  be  ever  as  happy  as  we  are 
now! 

"  Louisa,"  continued  Lewis,  "  here,  in 
presence  of  my  father's  grave,  I  promise 
to  love  and  honor  you  until  death,  and 
when  we  are  dead,  may  our  children  stand 
over  our  graves  with  the  same  tears  of 
gratitude,  which  we  now  shed  over  this." 
Louisa  fell  weeping  upon  his  breast. 


THE   ROSE-BUSH.  75 


CHAPTER  IX, 

LUCY    VON    PRACHT. 

Lewis's  heart  was  so  full  that  he  scarce- 
ly spoke  a  word,  as  he  returned  with  Lou- 
isa and  her  parents  to  his  father's  house. 
"  I  am  expected  here,"  said  he.  "  Is  it  not 
a  pity  that  I  must  interrupt  the  calm  sor- 
rows and  delicious  pleasures  of  this  eve- 
ning, bv  mingling  with  a  disagreeable  com- 
pany  ?  But  my  word  is  pledged  ;  I  must 
be  there,  and  you  must  accompany  me." 

Lewis  entered  the  festive  hall,  with 
Louisa  leaning  on  his  arm,  and  followed 
by  her  parents.  The  hall  was  brilliantly 
lighted,  and  adorned  with  garlands  of  flow- 
ers. The  music  struck  up  to  welcome 
them ;  but  Louisa  on   Lewis's  arm,   was 


76  THE   ROSE-BUSH. 

an  apparition  as  astounding  to  the  proud 
family  of  the  Prachts,  as  his  own  unex- 
pected apparition  a  fortnight  ago  in  the 
ballroom.  Mr.  von  Pracht  muttered  a 
terrible  oath. 

"  What  brings  them  here  ?"  he  cried. 
"  The  lawsuit,  I  suppose.  They  have  ap- 
pealed to  his  pity,  and  he  drags  them  here 
with  him  now.  Oh,  that  I  had  thrown 
some  charity-money  to  that  churl,  Wohl- 
muth,  and  I  had  got  rid  of  him  forever. ' 

Mrs.  von  Pracht  gnashed  her  teeth,  and 
was  almost  suffocated  with  rage.  "  How 
intolerable,"  said  she,  "  to  bring  a  common 
seamstress  here,  and  in  the  dress  too  of 
the  lowest  beggar.  I  fear  so  strange  and 
singular  a  son-in-law  can  never  possess 
his  mother-in-law's  love." 

Her  daughter,  Lucy,  was  pale  with 
rage  ;  she  was  decked  out  in  glittering 
diamonds,   nodding   plumes,    and   silvered 


THE   ROSE-BUSH.  77 

robes  wreathed  with  flowers ;  she  stood 
prouder  than  a  princess,  near  the  poor 
young  woman,  who  was  dressed  in  her 
plain  linen  gown,  and  who,  as  she  stood 
by  Lucy,  was  abashed  and  almost  over- 
powered when  the  lordly  splendor  and 
pomp  of  the  hall  burst  on  her  view. 

"  What  an  absurdity !"  the  old  aunt 
said ;  "  the  laborer's  daughter,  who  does 
not  know  how  to  conduct  herself,  had 
much  better  remain  where  she  was.  Look 
how  she  stands — the  very  image  of  a  wo- 
man that  lives  by  her  wheel,  or  of  a  beg- 
gar asking  alms."  Still  she  gave  Lucy  a 
hint  to  salute  the  poor  stranger  kindly. 

The  music  had  prevented  this  conver- 
sation from  being  overheard  bv  Lewis. 
But  the  aunt  told  every  word  of  it  next 
day  to  her  kind  friends,  who  published  it 
through  the  town. 

Lewis  advancing  into  the  hall  gave  a 


78  THE   ROSE-BUSH. 

sign  to  the  musicians,  and  the  music 
ceased.  He  still  had  Louisa  on  his  arm, 
and  as  she  was  on  his  right,  Miss  Pracht 
was  obliged,  to  her  evident  mortification, 
to  take  her  place  on  the  left.  Louisa's 
father  and  mother  stood  near  her,  and 
Mr.  von  Pracht,  his  wife,  and  the  old  aunt 
near  her  rival.  The  rest  of  the  gay  com- 
pany stood  in  a  circle  around  them. 

Mr.  von  Pracht  was  the  first  to  break 
silence. 

"  I  know,  my  dear  Alkmar,"  said  he, 
"  why  you  bring  these  good  people  here. 
It  is  on  account  of  the  lawsuit  that  I  had 
with  them.  I  am  very  sorry — extremely 
sorry,  indeed,  that  I  ever  had  any  dispute 
with  the  worthy  Mr.  Wohlmuth.  But  a 
hint  from  you,  Mr.  Alkmar,  is  enough. 
The  lawsuit  is  given  up.  This  very  eve- 
ning I  will  pay  the  money  in  dispute.  Hol- 
loa, there — call  my  cashier!" 


THE   ROSE-BUSH.  79 

"If  you  please,  Mr.  Pracht,  that  is  no 
longer  your  affair,  but  mine.  Mr.  Wohl- 
muth  shall  certainly  get  his  own.  But 
that  was  not  my  reason  for  introducing 
here  these  excellent  and  amiable  persons. 
My  motive  was  of  a  very  different  kind, 
as  you  shall  soon  know.  Where  do  you 
think  I  have  been  a  few  moments  ago  ? 
Would  you  believe  that  we  have  returned, 
just  as  you  see  us,  from  my  dear  father's 
grave  ?"  Mr.  von  Pracht  grew  pale,  and 
had  almost  broken  out  with  the  impreca- 
tion, "  Have  all  the  evil  spirits  conspired 
against  us  to-day  ?"  But  he  succeeded 
in  controlling  his  fury,  and  said,  as  if  in 
the  deepest  affliction,  "  It  is,  indeed,  a 
shame  for  me  that  I  have  not  executed 
my  intention  of  raising  a  splendid  monu- 
ment to  your  father,  that  noble  and  worthy 
man.  What  a  gratification  it  would  have 
been  for  me  to  surprise  so  excellent  a  son 


80  THE   ROSE-BUSH. 

with  a  monument  really  worthy  of  so  ad- 
mirable a  parent!  But  these  artists  are 
self-willed  people — there  is  no  getting  any 
thing  out  of  their  hands.  And  I  must 
confess,  too,  that  I  have  had  a  hard  stand 
with  my  relatives,  the  coheirs  of  the  prop- 
erty. They  would  not  leave  to  me  alone 
the  honor  of  erecting  the  monument,  and 
then,  on  the  other  hand,  my  designs  (which 
were  for  a  monument  of  truly  regal  mag- 
nificence) appeared  to  them  too  gigantic 
and  too  costly.'"' 

"  Ah,"  simpered  Lucy,  "  would  that  the 
monument,  as  I  have  often  urged  upon 
them,  were  speedily  finished,  and  in  sump- 
tuous Carrara  marble !  Well  did  the  dear 
man  deserve  the  most  splendid  that  could 
be  raised  !  How  often  have  I  visited  the 
holy  spot  where  his  ashes  repose !  It  is 
but  two  days  since  I  was  there,  and 
wept  tears  of  silent  sorrow." 


THE  ROSE-BUSH.  81 

The  last  words  she  said  with  an  af- 
fected tone.,  covering  her  eves  with  her 
white  pocket-handkerchief,  as  if  she  were 
really  weeping. 

Every  feeling  of  Lewis's  heart  revolted 
at  the  hideous  lies  of  Mr.  von  Pracht,  and, 
still  more,  at  his  daughter's  hypocrisy. 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  that  you  were  at 
the  grave  so  lately,"  said  he,  ''"'for  you 
must  have  seen  the  little  monument  which 
is  already  there.  I  was  delighted  with 
it.  How  did  you  like  it  ?  I  should  be 
very  glad  to  hear  your  opinion  of  it,  and 
to  admire  your  taste." 

The  wretched  girl  grew  red  and  pale  by 
turns. 

"  I  was,"  she  faltered,  "  I  don't  know — 
it  must  be — " 

She  paused  abruptly.  A  most  painful 
silence  followed  this  fatal  exposure.  Lucy 
could    have    crept    under   the    earth   for 


82  THE  ROSE-BUSH. 

shame  ;  and,  even  the  aunt  could  not  de- 
vise a  new  lie,  to  smooth  over  the  lie  of 
her  shame-stricken  niece.  She  could  only 
say,  in  her  own  mind,  "  The  man  is  a 
perfect  mar-sport.  At  our  last  ball,  he 
played  us  the  confounded  trick  of  coming 
upon  us  so  completely  unannounced,  that 
we  took  him  for  a  ghost ;  and,  now  he 
comes  straight  from  a  graveyard,  talks  of 
graves  and  tombstones,  and  brings  three 
goblins  along  with  him ;  for,  in  their  mis- 
erable trim,  they  do  not  look  much  bet- 
ter." 

She  did  her  best,  however,  to  cover  her 
niece's  confusion.  "  I  think  you  must  be 
mistaken,  my  dear,"  said  she,  "  it  is  longer 
than  that  since  you  were  there.  You 
must  have  meant  a  day  or  two  earlier,  1 
think,  before  Mr.  Alkmar  could  possibly 
have  got  the  monument  put  up." 

"  You  are,  yourself,  equally    mistaken, 


THE  ROSE-BUSH.  S3 

madam,"  said  Lewis  ;  "  I  assure  you..  Lucy 
could  never  possibly  have  been  there,  not 
even  once ;  nor  could  you  yourself,  or 
Mr.  or  Mrs.  Pracht,  without  observing 
the  monument,  which  has  now  been  sev- 
eral months  there ;  and,  to  speak  openly, 
as  becomes  an  honest  man,''  he  continued 
in  a  serious  and  cutting  tone,  '''it  grieves 
me  to  the  soul,  Mr.  Pracht,  to  find  that 
you  have  not  raised  even  a  stone  to  my 
father,  who  had  so  many  claims  on  the  re- 
spect of  his  fellow-citizens ;  and  who,  as 
you  imagined,  had  left  you  such  an  im- 
mense sum  of  money.  This  is  pushing 
thoughtlessness,  ingratitude,  and  insensi- 
bility, to  too  great  an  extreme.  As  for 
you,  Miss  Pracht,  I  shall  not  put  you 
further  to  shame  by  any  remark  on  vour 
gratuitous  and  disingenuous  hypocrisv. 
They  cover  you  with  a  deformity  which 
all  your  charms  and  arts  cannot  conceal !" 


S4  THE   ROSE-BUSH, 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE     BETROTHAL. 

"  I  observe,"  said  Lewis,  turning  to  the 
rest  of  the  party,  "  I  observe  in  this  nu- 
merous, though  not  altogether  well- assorted 
assembly,  many  sincere  friends  of  my  late 
father.  I  recognise  many  dear  friends  of 
my  own,  who  have  loved  and  esteemed 
me  from  my  childhood.  I  am  deeply 
touched  by  the  interest  which  you  have 
taken  in  my  return  ;  and  I  thank  you  for 
your  kindness,  in  honoring  with  your 
presence  this  festival,  which  is  intended  to 
welcome  me  to  my  home.  I  must  inform 
you,  however,  that  this  festival  is  a  very 
important  one  in  another  respect — it  is 
the  evening  of  my  betrothal ;  and  I  have 


THE  ROSE-BUSH.  S5 

now  the  honor  to  present  to  you,  my 
bride — Miss  Louisa  Wohlmuth." 

Had  a  thunderbolt  fallen  from  a  cloud- 
less sky  into  the  circle,  it  could  not  have 
caused  more  excitement  among  the  bv- 
standers.  Mr.  Pracht  and  his  wife  be- 
came as  pale  as  death — Lucy  cried  with 
rage,  shame,  and  vexation.  Even  the 
aunt,  with  all  her  finesse,  could  not  con- 
ceal her  mortification — she  could  not  get 
out  a  word  but  monosyllables.  "  She !" 
she  cried,  and  remained  with  her  mouth 
wide  open.  "  So  !"  she  continued,  drawl- 
ing out  the  word  longer  than  the  longest 
note  in  music.  "  Ah !  see,  see !  well, 
well,  I  wish  you  joy  !" 

"Almost  every  one  present,"  said  Lewis, 
"  seems  to  be  amazed  at  my  choice  ;  and 
perhaps  another,  placed  here  in  my  posi- 
tion,  between    these    two    young   ladies, 

would  have  chosen  differently.     It  is  pos- 

8 


SG  THE   ROSE-BUSH. 

sible  that  all  the  splendor  of  this  richly 
adorned  lady  might  blind  him,  and  that 
he  might  scarce  bestow  even  a  pitying 
glance  on  the  poor  modest  girl  in  this 
humble  check  gown.  But  for  my  part,  I 
find  nothing  to  admire  in  these  waving 
plumes,  these  flowers,  these  glittering 
spangles ;  nor  can  I  conceive  how  a  ra- 
tional man  can  admire  a  person  more,  on 
account  of  such  idle  frippery.  The  sim- 
ple natural  rose  in  Louisa's  hair,  has  more 
value  in  my  eyes,  than  all  these  sparkling 
diamonds.  For,  let  me  tell  you,  it  was 
this  bride  of  mine,  who  planted  the  rose- 
bush on  my  father's  grave,  and  gave  me 
so  convincing  a  proof  of  her  noble  heart. 
It  was  that  rose-bush  that  laid  the  founda- 
tion of  this  marriage/* 

He  told  the  whole  story,  and  contin- 
ued— 

"  How  was  it  possible,  that  I  should  not 


THE  ROSE-BUSH.  87 

prefer  this  generous  grateful  soul  who,  in 
addition  to  these  qualities,  had  been  main- 
taining her  poor  parents  and  family  by 
her  industry,  to  another,  in  whose  soul  the 
noblest  feelings — respect  for  virtue,  grati- 
tude, modesty,  quiet  industry — are  stran- 
gers ?  How  was  it  possible  that  I  should 
not  choose  the  pious,  unassuming,  virtuous 
Louisa,  in  preference  to  one,  whose  sole 
concern  is  the  desire  of  admiration,  pas- 
sion for  show,  and  idle  ostentation — who 
seeks  but  for  enjoyment — despises  and 
scorns  every  domestic  joy — and  could  not 
fail  to  make  a  husband  miserable?  I  feel 
that  I  have  chosen  aright.  Ay,  if  I  stood 
at  Miss  Pracht's  side,  myself  as  poor  as 
she  now  is,  and  were  she  covered  with 
diamonds,  and  did  she  bring  me  moun- 
tains of  gold  as  her  dowry,  still  I  would 
not  choose  her.  It  is  only  a  noble  heart 
that  gives  value  to    the    character.      He 


88  THE  ROSE-BUSH. 

who  finds  this,  has  found  all.  And  I 
trust,  under  God's  help,  to  be  unspeakably 
happy." 

"  I  have  spoken,"  added  he,  after  a  few 
moments'  pause,  "  with  more  warmth,  per- 
haps, than  I  should  have  done.  But  if 
what  I  have  said  is  not  courteous,  it  is 
nevertheless  true.  Falsehood,  dissimula- 
tion, and  hypocrisy  are  an  abomination  to 
my  soul.  But  to  change  the  subject — as 
this  house  and  my  whole  property,  (the 
greatest  part  of  which  is  still  in  Mr. 
Pracht's  hands.)  have  now  reverted  to 
me,  and  are  again  at  my  sole  disposal,  I 
hasten  to  make  use  of  my  right  of  hospi- 
tality— and  beg  to  welcome  with  all  my 
heart,  all  of  you,  who  feel  with  me,  and 
to  request  that  you  will  spend  this  evening 
with  me." 

v  All  his  father's  old  friends  loudly  ap- 
plaud ;d  Lewis's  sentiments,  and  advanced 


THE   ROSE-BUSH.  89 

to  offer  him  their  welcome  and  congratu- 
lations. The  cry,  "  Long  live  the  bride- 
groom and  bride,  Lewis  and  Louisa !" 
rose  simultaneously  from  them  all,  and 
was  joyously  echoed  by  the  trumpets  and 
kettle-drums.  But  the  Prachts,  with  their 
aunt  and  the  other  relatives,  slunk  silently 
away,  and  now  felt  bitterly  that  dishonor- 
able sentiments  bring  no  roses  in  their 
train. 

Lewis,  with  his  bride  and  her  parents, 
spent  a  delightful  evening  among  his  gen- 
erous-minded friends.  They  were  so 
happy,  that  no  one  even  ;hought  of  dan- 
cing, and  the  ball  was  entirely  forgotten  ; 
and,  when  at  Lewis's  regular  hour,  ten 
o'clock,  they  all  rose  from  table,  he  ap- 
pointed the  day  for  his  wedding,  and  in- 
vited them  all  to  be  present  at  the  fes- 
tivity. 

The    marriage    was    perfectly    happy 


90  THE  ROSE-BUSH. 

"  That  rose-bush,"  he  would  often  say, 
"  had  no  thorns  for  me — nothing  but  the 
sweetest  roses.  Had  not  you,  dear  Louisa, 
been  so  grateful  as  to  plant  it  on  my 
father's  grave,  we  had  never  been  so 
happy !" 

"And  had  not  you,"  would  Louisa  re- 
ply, "loved  your  father  so  dutifully,  and 
visited  his  grave  so  soon,  your  relatives 
would  soon  have  raised  a  monument  in 
the  place  of  the  rose-bush,  and  perhaps  we 
might  never  have  met  one  another!" 

"Your  generous  dispositions,  dearest 
children,"  said  her  mother,  "  were  the 
origin  of  all  our  happiness.  Such  dis- 
positions always  bring  roses,  and  at  every 
season." 

"And  had  not  God,"  concluded  her 
father,  "disposed  this  so  happily,  we 
should  never  have  been  so  fortunate.  It 
was  He  who  laid  the  foundation  of  all  our 


THE   ROSE-BUSH. 


91 


good  fortune :  under  His  directing  hand, 
all  these  countless  joys  have  sprung  from 
a  single  little  rose-bush  !" 


93 


THE    SCREECH-OWL. 
By  Mrs.  Mart  Howitt. 

Pray  thee,  Owl.  what  art  thou  doing, 
With  that  dolefulest  tu-whoo-ing  ? 
Dark  the  night  is,  dark  and  dreary, 
Never  a  little  star  shines  cheery  ; 
Wild  north  winds  come  up  the  hollow, 
And  the  pelting  rain  doth  follow ; 
And  the  trees,  the  tempest  braving, 
To  and  fro  are  wildly  waving! 
Every  living  thing  is  creeping 
To  its  den,  and  silence  keeping, 
Saving  thou,  the  night  hallooing 
With  thy  dismalest  tu-whoo-ing! 

Pr'y  thee,  Owl,  what  is't  thou'rt  saying, 
So  terrific  and  dismaying  ? 


94  THE  SCREECH-OWL. 

Dost  thou  speak  of  loss  and  ruin, 
In  that  ominous  tu-whoo-ing  ? 
While  the  tempest  yet  was  stiller, 
Homeward  rode  the  kindly  miller, 
With  his  drenched  meal-sacks  o'er  him, 
And  his  little  son  before  him  ; 
Dripping  wet,  yet  loud  in  laughter, 
Rode  the  jolly  hunters  after; 
And  sore  wet,  and  blown,  and  wildern, 
Went  a  huddling  group  of  children  ; 
But  each,  through  the  tempest's  pother, 
Got  home  safely  to  its  mother. 

Hoot  away,  then,  an'  it  cheer  thee, 
Only  I  and  darkness  hear  thee, 
Screech-Owl !  and  we'll  fear  no  ruin, 
Spite  thy  ominous  tu-whoo-ing! 


There  is  nothing  I  would  not  give  to  have  nnrfc 
a  "bird  in  our  room  in  winter  " — Page  105. 


<  f&artin  ora/n-H 


WAS  a.  gallant 
soldier,  who  had 
served  a  number 
of  years,  made 
many  campaigns, 
and  fought  hon- 
orably for  his  country.  When  he  re- 
turned home  from  the  wars,  he  found  that 


■■ 


98 


THE   REDBREAST. 


his  poor  parents  were  dead.  They  had 
left  him  nothing  but  an  old  rickety  house 
and  a  little  orchard.  The  brave  man 
now  found  himself  in  a  very  wretched 
situation  ;  his  wounds  rendered  all  se- 
vere labor  impossible  ;  he  was  very  mel- 
ancholy ;  and  considered  earnestly  night 
and  day  how  to  earn  an  honest  liveli- 
hood. One  day,  in  the  neighboring  for- 
est, he  remarked  that  the  old  stumps 
and  roots  of  the  maple-trees  that  had 
been  cut  down,  presented  some  very 
beautiful  pieces  of  streaked  and  varie- 
gated wood,  but  were  little  esteemed,  or 
rotted  useless  in  the  ground.  He  im- 
mediately set  to  work  to  make  pipe- 
heads  and  tobacco  boxes  out  of  this 
wood,  and  soon  brought  them  to  ex- 
traordinary perfection :  the  pipe-heads, 
which  were  neatly  cut  out  of  the  pret- 
tiest    wood,     and     beautifully    polished, 


THE   REDBREAST.  99 

were  specially  admired,  and  met  with  a 
rapid  sale.  Many  gentlemen  of  high 
station  preferred  these  pipe-heads,  when 
mounted  in  silver,  even  to  Meerschaum 
ones. 

The  industrious  man  labored  unwea- 
riedly  the  whole  week  in  his  workshop, 
or  in  carrying  home  maple  from  the 
wood,  and  dressed  no  better  than  a  com- 
mon laborer,  while  thus  engaged.  But 
on  Sunday  he  appeared  in  his  green 
uniform  with  red  facings,  and  with  his 
silver  medal  on  his  breast ;  and  went 
early,  leaning  on  his  corporal's  staff,  (as 
his  foot  was  somewhat  lame,)  with  meas- 
ured steps  to  church,  and  in  the  evening 
for  an  hour,  or  at  most  two,  to  see  his 
friends.  He  still  had  something  martial 
in  his  appearance  and  countenance,  and 
continued  to  wear  his  mustachios.  He 
was  much  esteemed  for  his  uprightness, 


100 


THE   REDBREAST. 


intelligence,  and  regularity  ;  and,  by  his 
industry  and  prudent  economy,  he  ac- 
quired a  very  respectable  competence. 
For  he  was  not  one  of  those  who,  when 
they  establish  a  good  business,  immedi- 
ately begin  to  expend,  and  think  that  it 
will  ever  continue  so.  Amongst  other 
things  he  improved  his  old  wooden  house, 
which  a  wealthy  friend  had  caused  to  be 
pulled  down  and  rebuilt ;  and  he  ar- 
ranged it  so,  that  he  lived  very  happily 
and  conveniently  in  it ;  and  it  looked  very 
well  with  its  deep  brown  wood,  its  new 
round  panes,  and  the  shining  lead  of  the 
frames,  amidst  the  high  pear-trees  and 
wide-spreading  apple-trees  of  the  or- 
chard. He  got  married,  and  brought  up 
his  children,  a  son  and  daughter,  ad- 
mirably, and  provided  very  well  for  them. 
"  He  who  is  not  wanting  in  industry," 
said  he  often,  "  will  never  want  for  bread. 


THE   REDBREAST.  101 

Even  the  most  insignificant  craft  can 
support  a  man.  Do  your  duty  faithfully, 
and  trust  in  God,  and  God  will  do  his 
part,  and  will  not  suffer  you  to  want  his 
aid,  which  is  so  necessary." 

When  honest  Martin  Frank  had  at- 
tained a  tolerable  old  age,  and  his  good 
and  faithful  wife  was  no  more,  the  gallant 
old  soldier  looked  after  his  house  himself, 
and  without  employing  a  house-maid. 
At  the  same  time  he  took  his  grandson  to 
live  with  him,  a  lively  blooming  boy,  who 
had  been  christened  Martin  in  honor  of 
his  grandfather.  Little  Martin  loved  his 
grandfather  with  his  whole  heart  and  soul, 
and  did  every  thing  to  please  him,  divining 
his  wishes  from  his  very  looks.  His 
grandfather  made  use  of  him  as  an  as- 
sistant in  his  trade,  and  at  their  work, 
related  to  him  sometimes  merry,  some- 
times fearful,  tales  of  his  campaigns,  from 


Lr 


102  THE  REDBREAST. 

which,  however,  he  always  drew  some 
good  moral. 

The  grandfather  often  spent  whole 
days  in  the  woods,  selecting  maple  roots 
and  stumps,  and  bringing  them  home. 
He  always  took  his  grandson  with  him, 
and  these  were  the  happiest  days  of  the 
boy's  life.  He  never  was  so  happy  as  in 
the  woods.  His  grandfather  taught  him 
the  names  of  all  the  trees  there,  and  the 
qualities  and  uses  of  the  different  kinds. 
"We  can  never  sufficiently  thank  our 
good  God,"  said  he,  among  other  things, 
"that  He  has  caused  the  great  trees  to 
grow  up  around  us.  Had  He  not  given 
us  trees,  we  should  have  been  sadly  off. 
The  firs  and  the  pines  yonder  on  the 
mountain  afford  us  beams,  planks,  and 
laths :  our  whole  house  is  built  of  fir ; 
and  even  the  tables  and  chairs,  chests 
and  bedsteads,  are  made  of  it.     The  fir 


THE  REDBREAST.  103 

certainly  is  somewhat  soft ;  but  other 
trees,  such  as  the  oak  and  beech  yonder, 
have  very  firm  hard  wood.  If  our  wheel- 
barrow here  were  not  made  of  such  hard 
wood,  it  would  not  last  long  ;  nay,  with- 
out hard  wood,  we  could  not  even  have 
a  durable  handle  for  our  tools.  It  is  a 
very  beautiful  provision,  too,  that  each 
kind  of  wood  has  a  peculiar  color ;  red, 
or  brown,  or  yellow,  and  thus  they  serve 
for  all  sorts  of  nice  furniture.  But  the 
wood  of  the  maple  is  veined  like  marble, 
and  it  is  so  close,  that  you  cannot  distin- 
guish the  fibres  of  the  wood,  for  which 
reason  we  can  make  it  into  such  fine 
articles.  We  cannot,  it  is  true,  eat  the 
fruit  of  forest  trees  ;  but  nevertheless 
these  trees  support  many  thousand  in- 
dustrious men,  who  earn  their  livelihood 
by  working  in  wood.  We,  too,  owe  our 
living  to  the  maple-tree.     So  wisely  has 


104 


THE  REDBREAST. 


God  disposed  all  things.  We  must  rec- 
ognise his  wisdom  and  goodness  in  all 
things,  and  ever  cherish  a  grateful  heart 
towards  him." 

Little  Martin  was  delighted  beyond 
measure  with  the  birds  in  the  wood  and 
their  sweet  songs.  "  Grandfather,"  said 
he,  "  may  we  not  catch  one  and  take  it 
home  to  the  house  ?" 

"Nay,"  answered  his  grandfather,  "that 
must  not  be." 

"Why  not?"  said  the  child;  "they 
sing  delightfully.  In  the  house  we  might 
always  hear  them  sing." 

"  You  can  hear  them  singing  here  in 
the  wood,"  said  his  grandfather ;  "  it 
sounds  far  better  here.  The  poor  birds 
that  men  catch  so  cruelly,  seldom  live 
long,  and  often  perish  by  their  neglect." 

One   fine    harvest   day,    however,   in 
autumn,  the  grandfather  and  his  grand- 


THE  REDBREAST. 


105 


son  were  seated  in  a  sunny  opening  of 
the  wood  at  their  humble  dinner,  which 
the  boy  had  as  usual  brought  with  him  in 
a  basket.  A  robin  redbreast  came  and 
picked  up  the  crumbs  scattered  about. 
The  little  fellow  was  delighted  with  it. 
"  What  a  very  pretty  bird !"  exclaimed  he 
to  his  grandfather,  speaking  low,  how- 
ever, in  order  not  to  disturb  it.  "  There 
is  nothing  I  would  not  give  to  have  such 
a  bird  in  our  room  during  the  winter." — 
"  And  so  you  may,"  answered  his  grand- 
father :  "  the  robin  is  a  very  tame  bird, 
and  willingly  dwells  with  man.  Perhaps 
it  would  rather  pass  the  winter  under  a 
roof,  than  in  the  open  air."  His  grand- 
father then  taught  the  boy  how  to  catch 
one. 

Little  Martin  ran  every  day,  for  a 
wThole  week,  to  the  wood,  to  see  if  there 
was  not  a  robin  caught.     But  he  alwavs 


106  THE  REDBREAST. 

came  home  empty-handed,  and  had  al- 
most given  up  all  hopes  of  getting  one. 
At  last,  one  day  he  came  running  home 
full  of  joy.  "  Grandfather,"  he  cried, 
"  see,  I  have  one  at  last !  Oh  look  at  his 
beautiful  little  bright  black  eyes,  and 
what  a  lovely  yellow  red  his  breast  is  ! 
1  am  not  sorry  now  for  all  my  care  and 
trouble."  He  let  the  bird  fly  in  the  room, 
and  his  delight  was  vet  greater  when  he 
perceived  that  it  was  not  afraid,  but 
snapped  up  the  flies  about  the  room,  ate 
the  grated  yellow  turnips  mixed  with 
flour  out  of  the  little  green  earthenware 
trough,  and  washed  himself  in  the  water 
bowl.  Martin  brought  a  fresh  green  little 
pine,  from  the  wood,  and  fixed  it  in  the 
corner  of  the  room.  The  bird  immedi- 
ately flew  to  it.  "  Aha !"  exclaimed  Mar- 
tin, "  he  knows  his  place.  How  lively 
he  hops  from  branch  to  branch  !    How 


THE  REDBREAST. 


107 


roguishly  he  looks  out  from  between  the 
branches,  and  how  prettily  his  red  breast 
contrasts  with  their  dark  green  !"  The 
robin  soon  became  quite  well  acquainted 
with  him,  would  pick  the  flies  off  his 
fingers,  sit  on  the  edge  of  his  plate,  and 
eat  with  him,  and  soon  came  to  relish 
potatoes  exceedingly.  He  often  went  out 
of  the  open  window  into  the  garden, 
hopped  about  the  hedge  singing,  but  al- 
ways came  back  of  his  own  accord.  The 
bird  was  the  source  of  a  thousand  pleas- 
ures to  Martin — and  when  he  first  began 
to  sing,  Martin  held  his  breath,  and  list- 
ened with  such  delight  to  the  low,  lively 
twitter,  that  no  prince  ever  heard  a  first- 
rate  flute-player  with  more  pleasure. 

His  grandfather's  name-feast  came 
round  again.  The  grandfather  looked, 
one  Sunday  evening,  in  the  almanac,  and 
said,  "  Ah  !  how  time  slips  away  !     Next 

2* 


108 


THE  REDBREAST. 


Tuesday  is  Saint  Martin's  day.  How 
different  since  last  year.  Then  my  dear 
Elizabeth  was  alive,  and  we  ate  together 
the  Martinmas  goose  which  she  had  spe- 
cially i'atted  for  my  festival.     But  now — 


it  will  be  a  sad  festival.  Nothing  is  right 
when  there  is  no  housewife  to  look  after 
the  household.  We  cannot  even  observe 
the  good  old  custom  of  eating  a  goose  on 


THE    REDBREAST. 


109 


St.   Martin's   nia^ht  :    I   had    forgotten   it, 

and  it  is  now  too  late."  He  put  on  his 
green  uniform  in  rather  low  spirits,  and 
went  to  the  Golden  Eagle,  where  on 
Sunday  evenings  he  sometimes  read  the 
newspaper  to  the  peasants,  and  related 
his  campaigning  adventures  to  them. 

The  grandfather  had  scarcely  left  the 
house,  when  young  Adolphus,  the  son  of 
the  Lord  of  Waldberg,  who  lived  in  the 
castle  on  the  hill,  entered  the  door  to 
order  a  pair  of  pipe-bowls  according  to 
the  pattern  he  carried.  Little  Martin 
was  just  then  playing  with  his  robin, 
which  had  flown  on  to  his  finger,  and 
was  picking  some  bruised  hemp-seed  from 
his  hand. 

"What  will  you  take  for  the  bird?" 
said  Adolphus.  "It  is  very  tame  ;  I  will 
buy  it.  from  you." — "  I  set  great  value  on 
him,"  answered  Martin,  stroking  the  bird's 


110  THE   REDBREAST. 

feathers  with  the  finger  of  his  othei 
hand  ;  "  I  cannot  sell  him  for  any  price." 
But  the  rich  young  gentleman  begged 
again  and  again,  and  offered  him  a  florin. 
Then  the  thought  struck  Martin  that  for 
a  florin  he  might  buy  a  goose,  and  so 
afford  his  grandfather  an  unexpected 
pleasure.  He  therefore  gave  the  bird  to 
the  young  gentleman,  charging  and  beg- 
ging him  most  earnestly  to  treat  the 
gentle  little  creature  well.  "  Take  good 
care,"  said  he,  "  that  the  cats  in  the  castle 
do  not  get  near  him  ;  and  lest  they  should, 
do  not  cut  his  wings." 

Martin  now  went  from  house  to  house 
to  find  a  goose  for  sale.  A  farmer's 
wife  had  one  fat  goose  left ;  but  she 
said  she  could  not  sell  it  for  less  than  a 
crown.  Martin  said  sorrowfully,  that  he 
had  no  more  than  a  florin,  and  told  how 
he  had  sold  his  bird,  in  order  to  provide 


THE  REDBREAST.  HI 

a  treat  for  his  grandfather.  This  pleased 
the  woman.  "  Well,"  said  she,  "  for  your 
love  for  your  grandfather,  you  shall  have 
the  goose  for  a  florin." 

Martin  thanked  her  joyfully,  and  said 
he  would  come  for  the  goose  the  next 
evening. 

The  evening  before  the  long-expected 
feast,  little  Martin  came  solemnly  with 
the  well-fatted  goose  under  his  arm  into 
the  room,  repeated  a  salutation  to  his 
grandfather,  which,  at  Martin's  earnest 
request,  the  schoolmaster  had  composed 
in  pretty  verse,  but  which  the  goose,  to 
the  boy's  great  annoyance,  several  times 
interrupted  with  its  gabbling.  At  the 
end  of  the  speech,  Martin,  with  a  low 
bow,  offered  his  grandfather  the  goose  as 
a  gift  for  his  feast-day. 

The  old  man,  who  was  a  great  stickler 
for   honesty,   at   first   was   not    pleased. 


^MH 


112  THE  REDBREAST. 

He  had  some  suspicions,  and  spoke  to 
the  boy  very  sharply.  "  Where  did  you 
get  the  goose,  or  the  money  for  it  ?" 
exclaimed  he  with  great  earnestness, 
standing  up  from  his  arm-chair,  and  rais- 
ing his  hazel  stick  with  a  threatening  air. 
He  still  could  wield  the  corporal's  stick 
right  well,  though  he  had  had  no  need  to 
use  it  with  his  good-hearted,  obedient 
nephew.  Martin  was  silent.  "  Where 
did  you  get  it  ?"  repeated  the  old  man  in 
his  deep  expressive  tones  ;  "  tell  me  !" 
Martin  recounted  the  sale  of  his  dear 
robin.  His  grandfather  was  much  touched, 
and  wiped  awTay  a  tear  from  his  musta- 
chios,  which  had  fallen  during  the  rela- 
tion. "Bravo!"  he  exclaimed,  "you  have 
done  well.  I  am  delighted  that  you  love 
your  grandfather  so  much.  Martin's  night 
will  yet  be  a  joyful  feast  for  me — a  real 
festival  for  my  heart.     Go  now  and  put 


THE   REDBREAST 


113 


the  goose  for  the  present  into  the  empty 
coop." 

As  the  lad  turned  away,  the  grand- 
father said  to  himself,  "  That  boy  has  a 
heart  that  is  worth  more  than  gold. 
What  he  has  done  is  an  act  worthy  of 
St.  Martin.  St.  Martin  gave  half  his 
cloak  to  the  beggar  ;  but  this  lad  gave 
away  his  whole  delight  to  gratify  his 
grandfather.  My  holy  Patron  will  not 
take  it  amiss,  that  I  should  say  that  this 
boy  has  done  almost  more  than  holy 
Martin,  who,  if  I  remember  right,  was  a 
soldier  too  !  The  boy  will  yet  be  a  great 
man." 

The  grandfather,  who  in  his  campaigns 
had  often  cooked,  and  still  exercised  his 
skill,  prepared  himself  this  unusual  dish, 
and  during  the  dinner  gave  the  nicest 
part  to  his  grandson.  Whilst  they  were 
sitting  at  table,  there  came,  quite  unex- 


114  THE  REDBREAST. 

pectedly,  a  servant  from  the  castle  with 
a  bottle  of  wine,  and  said  that  his  master 
and  mistress  had  learned  from  the  young 
Baron  Adolphus,  how  little  Martin  had 
sold  his  pretty  robin  to  buy  a  goose  for 
his  grandfather's  day ;  and  that  they  sent 
the  corporal  a  glass  of  wine  to  drink  with 
it,  and  wished  him  the  compliments  of  his 
feast.  The  old  man  felt  much  gratified 
by  this  favor,  and  little  Martin  too  re- 
joiced that  his  robin  had  procured  his 
grandfather  not  only  a  roast  goose,  but 
also  a  draught  of  good  wine  besides. 

Poor  Martin,  however,  missed  his  dear 
little  bird  sadly ;  he  could  hardly  bear  to 
look  at  the  fir-tree  which  stood  solitary 
and  deserted  in  the  corner  of  the  room. 
One  evening  the  grandfather  and  his 
grandson  were  sitting  round  the  fire.  As 
the  sky  was  cloudy,  it  was  dark  earlier 
than  usual,  and  they  had  therefore  lit  the 


THE   REDBREAST. 


115 


fire  the  sooner.  It  was  a  very  bitter 
November  evening  ;  it  snowed  and  rained 
together  ;  the  storm  whistled  and  roared 
as  though  it  would  carry  their  cotta.ge 
away.  On  a  sudden  little  Martin  ex- 
claimed, "  Oh  !  there's  a  bird  at  the  win- 
dow ;  he  is  pecking  against  the  glass  as  if 
he  wanted  to  be  let  in."  He  opened  the 
window — the  bird  flew  in— and  who  can 
describe  the  boy's  joy  when  in  the  bird 
he  recognised  his  beloved  robin !  He 
had  tied  a  thread  of  red  silk  round  its 
foot,  by  which  he  would  have  known  it, 
even  if  he  did  not  otherwise  recognise  it. 
"  Oh,  you  dear  little  fellow,"  exclaimed 
he,  "  so  you  have  come  back  !  You  have 
not  forgotten  your  Martin.  How  did 
you  find  out  our  house  again  ?  Do  you 
love  this  humble  roof  better  than  the 
stately  castle  1     Well,  well,  we  too  have 

a    warm   room    here   for    winter,   warm 

3 


11(5  THE  REDBREAST. 

soup,  to  eat  our  fill,  and,  what  is  better 
than  all,  a  light  heart.  And  who  need 
wish  for  more  ?" 

He  stretched  out  his  hand,  and  the  bird 
flew  to  him.  "  Would  you  not  like,"  said 
he,  "  to  stay  here  1  But  you  don't  under- 
stand any  better  :  Alas  !  I  cannot  keep 
you  here  ;  that  were  but  to  steal  you.  I 
must — must  take  you  back  again.  Ah," 
sighed  he,  and  he  pressed  the  little  bird 
to  his  moist  cheek,  "  you  don't  know  how 
hard  it  is  for  me  to  part  with  you ;  but  it 
must  be." 

"  Bravo,  boy !"  said  his  grandfather, 
"  that  is  right ;  that  is  your  duty.  Take 
the  bird  back  therefore,  at  once ;  else  it 
will  be  harder  for  you  to  do  so.  What 
is  not  ours  should  never  stay  a  night 
under  our  roof.  And  make  haste  to  be 
back  before  it  becomes  quite  night." 

Martin  took  his  new  fur    cap,   which 


THE   REDBREAST.  117 

his  grandfather  had  made  him  a  present 
of  on  his  Patron-day,  and  ran  through 
the  rain  and  snow  up  to  the  castle. 
Little  Adolphus  was  delighted  when  he 
saw  the  bird  again  in  the  boy's  hand. 
But  his  mother,  who  was  sitting  on  a 
sofa  at  work  before  a  table  on  which 
stood  two  bright  wax  candles,  was  much 
pleased  with  the  honesty  of  the  lad. 

"  You  have  done  very  well,  my  little 
fellow,"  said  she,  "  in  bringing  back  the 
bird.  You  might  easily  have  kept  it 
without  our  knowing  any  thing  about  it. 
Nay,  even  if  I  had  seen  it  in  your  house, 
I  should  have  thought  it  was  another 
robin.  But  I  should  never  have  thought 
that  so  little  a  bird  would  have  had  such 
affection  for  men,  and  that  he  would  have 
been  able  to  find  out  again  the  house 
where  he  had  been  kindly  received  and 
treated.     Since  so  little  a  creature  is  not 


118  THE   REDBREAST. 

destitute  of  feeling,  but  is  grateful  and 
affectionate,  how  much  more  should  men 
be  so  !" 

When  Martin  had  given  the  bird  up  to 
the  young  Baron  Adolphus,  his  coun- 
tenance was  very  sorrowful.  But  the 
lady  said  to  Adolphus,  "  Dear  Adolphus, 
you  see  the  poor  robin  was  the  poor  lad's 
whole  joy ;  he  sold  it,  as  you  well  know, 
sorely  against  his  inclination,  to  afford 
pleasure  to  his  grandfather.  You  al- 
lowed the  bird  to  escape  through  your 
forgetfulness,  but  it  was  so  fond  of  him, 
that  it  returned  of  his  own  accord.  He 
has  been  so  honest  as  to  bring  it  back, 
though  he  loved  it  dearly  and  would  so 
gladly  have  kept  it.  Now,  would  it  be 
right  to  take  the  bird  from  him  again  ?" 

"  Oh  no,"  exclaimed  Adolphus,  "  it 
would  not  be  fair.  There,  good  Martin, 
take   your  robin   again ;    I   make  you  a 


THE  REDBREAST. 


119 


present  of  it,  as  a  reward  for  your  hon- 
esty." Martin  was  unwilling  to  accept 
of  the  robin,  for  which  the  young  baron 
had  paid  so  dear.  But  Adolphus  insisted. 
"  Take  it,  take  it,"  said  he,  "  and  the 
next  robin  you  catch,  you  can  bring  it  to 
me." 

Martin  was  highly  delighted.  "  If  you 
had  given  me  the  whole  castle,"  said  he, 
"you  could  not  have  done  me  a  greater 
favor."  But  the  lady,  who  was  even 
more  pleased  with  the  noble  sentiments 
of  her  son,  than  Martin  with  his  robin, 
went  to  her  desk,  and  taking  a  bright 
piece  of  gold,  gave  it  to  Martin,  saying, 
"  Since  my  Adolphus  knows  so  well  how 
to  appreciate  your  excellent  heart,  and 
has  given  you  the  bird  as  a  reward  for 
your  honesty,  how  could  his  mother  leave 
you  unrewarded  !     Take  this   gold ;  for 

your  honor  is  more  precious  than  gold." 

3* 


120 


THE  REDBREAST. 


Martin  came  down  the  castle  hill  at 
full  speed,  jumping  for  joy,  and  almost 
burst  the  door  in.  "  I  have  the  robin 
here  again,"  said  he  ;  "  this  is  the  third 
time  that  he  comes  under  our  roof.  He 
is  really  a  lucky  bird.  See  here,  grand- 
father, what  he  has  brought  me  !" 

He  held  out  the  gold  coin  to  his  strand- 


THE  REDBREAST.  121 

father,  and  said,  "  Is  it  not  a  beautiful 
piece  of  gold  ?  You  must  take  it — I  am 
rich  enough  in  having  my  dear  little  bird 

O  CD  J 

back  again." 

"  You  see,"  said  his  grandfather,  "  that, 
what  I  always  tell  you  is  true.  The 
noble  lady,  too,  prized  honor  more  than 
gold.  All  good  men  think  so.  So  thought 
the  good  king  too,  whose  image  is  on 
this  coin,  whom  I  once  had  the  honor  to 
serve.  Look  at  his  portrait !  he  seems 
as  if  he  were  going  to  speak  ;  and  if  he 
could  speak,  he  would  say,  what  old  cor- 
poral Frank  ahvays  says,  '  My  lad,  be 
always  an  honorable  man.'  With  this 
money  I  will  get  you  a  new  uniform. 
This  coat  will  be  a  true  dress  of  honor  for 
you  :  for  you  have  won  it  by  your  honor- 
able conduct.  Take  care,  during  your 
whole  life,  never  to  wear  any  thing  but 
what  is  acquired  by  honor  and  honesty." 


122  THE  REDBREAST. 

But  his  robin  produced  more  than  a 
dollar  to  the  noble-minded  little  Martin. 
He  and  his  grandfather  were,  by  this  in- 
cident, brought  under  the  notice  of  the 
owners  of  the  castle.  One  fine  winter's 
morning,  the  family  went  out  to  walk,  and 
chanced  to  pass  by  Martin's  house.  The 
young  baron  said,  "I  should  like  to  see 
whether  the  robin  is  alive!"  They  en- 
tered, and  the  Baron  von  Waldberg,  who 
hitherto  had  known  Corporal  Frank  only 
by  sight,  entered  into  conversation  with 
him,  inquired  about  his  campaigns,  and 
was  highly  pleased  with  him.  Henceforth 
he  always  stopped  to  speak  to  him,  as  he 
went  to  shoot  in  the  wood,  and  often  came 
to  his  house  to  order  a  pipe-bowl,  and 
watched  him  at  work,  talking  to  him  for 
hours  together.  Adolphus,  too,  often,  came 
with  him,  played  with  Martin,  and  fre- 
quently invited  him  to  come  to  the  castle. 


THE    REDBREAST.  123 

Meanwhile  the  grandfather  felt  more 
and  more  the  weight  of  years,  and  it 
became  the  whole  wish  of  his  heart  to 
provide  well  for  his  grandson  before  his 
death.  He  had  always  thought,  till  now, 
that  Martin  might  support  himself  by 
making  boxes  and  pipes.  But  other  in- 
dustrious people  in  the  village,  who  were 
employed  in  field  labor  in  summer,  and 
had  nothing  to  do  in  winter,  had  taken 
to  this  trade  after  the  example  of  the 
thrifty  soldier.  There  was  not  so  good 
a  sale  therefore  for  boxes  and  pipes,  now 
that  they  had  become  more  common. 
The  grandfather  therefore  often  thought 
of  getting  his  grandson  taught  some  other 
trade,  which  might  require  more  know- 
ledge and  skill,  but  which  would  support 
a  man  better.  But  he  had  given  so 
much  to  his  son  and  daughter,  that  he 
had   but    little    left    for    himself,   and    his 


124  THE   REDBREAST. 

grandson,  Martin,  had  so  many  brothers 
and  sisters,  that  his  parents  had  enough 
to  do  to  maintain  them  all.  The  good 
old  man,  therefore,  could  see  no  way  to 
get  the  fee  and  expenses  to  be  paid 
with  little  Martin  for  teaching  him  a 
trade. 

Just  at  this  time  young  Martin,  who 
was  now  fourteen  years  old,  came  one 
day  to  the  castle  to  compliment  the 
young  Baron  Adolphus  on  his  birthday. 
Adolphus  showed  him  a  beautiful  wri- 
ting-desk, most  exquisitely  made,  which 
his  father  had  given  him  as  a  birthday 
present.  "  The  most  skilful  artisan  in 
town,  made  it,"  said  Adolphus:  "how  do 
you  like  it  ?" 

Martin  examined  the  desk  with  great 
care  "  This  is  beautiful  wood,"  he  ex- 
claimed ;  "  I  never  saw  finer  !  The  other 
wood  is  beautiful.     This  dark  brown,  is 


THE   REDBREAST. 


125 


walnut  ;  the  red,  cherry  ;  the  yellow, 
pear ;  and  this  nice  white  is  of  the  plane- 
tree." 

The  Baron  von  Waldberg,  who 
chanced  at  this  moment  to  enter  the 
room,  wondered  how  Martin  came  to 
know  the  names  of  all  these  woods,  and 
said,  "  Who  taught  you  all  this  so  well  ?" 
"  My  grandfather,  Sir,"  answered  Mar- 
tin. "  I  have'  made  a  collection  of  all 
sorts  of  wood  that  grow  in  our  forests 
and  orchards.  They  are  only  boards, 
but  they  are  made  into  little  pieces,  just 
like  the  pretty  books  on  the  desk  there, 
and  are  ranged  in  a  row  just  like  them. 
They  look  just  like  books ;  the  bark, 
which  I  have  left  on  them,  is  for  the 
backs,  and  the  rest  of  the  wood,  which 
I  have  polished  nicely,  is  for  the  cover 
and  the  leaves." 

Baron  von  Waldberg  thought  that  he 


12o 


THE  REDBREAST. 


could  not  celebrate  his  son's  birth-day 
better  than  by  an  act  of  generosity. 

"  Well,  Martin,"  said  he,  "  you  under- 
stand the  different  kinds  of  wood  very 
well.  I  know,  too,  that  you  can  make 
pipe-bowls  very  cleverly ;  but  such  a 
desk  as  that  is  a  far  finer  piece  of  work. 
Would  you  like  to  learn  this  trade  and 
be  a  cabinet-maker  ?" 

"  That  I  would,"  said  Martin.  "  There 
is  nothing  I  would  like  better ;  but  my 
grandfather  cannot  afford  the  money  for 
my  prentice-fee." 

"  Well,  then,"  said  the  baron,  "  as  for 
the  fee,  I  will  provide  that.  If  your 
grandfather  agrees,  I  will  have  you  bound 
apprentice  to  the  master  who  made  that 
desk." 

Martin  was  delighted  with  this  offer, 
and  his  grandfather,  too,  thought  it.  most 
fortunate,  or  rather    an   interposition  of 


■■B^BBflB 


THE   REDBREAST. 


1-27 


God's  bounteous  providence ;  and  ex- 
horted his  grandson  to  thank  God  with 
his  whole  heart  for  so  great  a  favor. 

Martin  learned  his  business  ;  in  three 
years  became  a  journeyman,  travelled 
into  foreign  countries,  and  returned  at 
length  to  the  great  joy  of  his  old  grand- 
father, a  healthy,  virtuous  young  man, 
well  clad,  and  in  the  bloom  of  youth 
and  health,  and  very  skilful  in  his  trade. 
The  Baron  von  Waldberg  was  highly 
pleased  with  the  first  specimen  of  work 
which  he  ordered. 

"  Well,  my  good  Martin,"  said  he,  "  it 
has  long  been  my  wish  to  have  a  skilful 
cabinet-maker  in  this  village.  I  will 
assist  you  to  open  a  workshop  of  your 
own."  The  old  house  was  rebuilt.  Baron 
von  Waldberg  supplied  him  with  all 
necessary  wood  without  any  expense, 
and  the    young   tradesman   executed    all 


128  THE   REDBREAST. 

his  work  with  his  own  hands  :  he  soon 
found  abundant  employment,  for  he  was 
as  moderate  in  his  charges  as  skilful  ; 
and  in  the  course  of  time  he  married 
the  daughter  of  one  of  the  burghers  of 
the  town,  a  very  virtuous,  prudent,  and 
industrious  girl. 


His  grandfather,  now  a  venerable  old 
man,  lived  to  see  this  happiness,  and 
dwelt   with   his    grandson    in    the    new 


n^n 


THE  REDBREAST. 


129 


house,  highly  honored  and  beloved. 
Martin  was  also  able  to  do  great  service 
to  his  parents  and  his  brothers  and  sis- 
ters. 

On  one  occasion,  when  Martin  had 
invited  his  parents,  his  sisters,  and  all 
the  rest  of  his  relations,  to  eat  a  Martin's 
goose  together,  on  his  grandfather's  Pa- 
tron-day, and  they  were  all  happy  and 
joyous,  the  grandfather  said,  "  This  is 
very  likely  the  last  time  in  my  life,  that 
I  shall  see  all  my  children  collected 
around  one  table  !  With  joy  do  I  re- 
member, when  Martin,  then  a  little  boy, 
for  love  of  me  sold  his  Robin  Redbreast 
to  procure  me  a  happy  St.  Martin's 
evening.  Under  God's  providence,  that 
bird  was  the  first  cause  of  Martin's  good 
fortune.  God  has  rewarded  his  love  for 
me,  his  honor,  his  industry,  and  his  good 
conduct,   and    placed   him   in  a  position 


130 


THE   REDBREAST. 


to  make  the  evening  of  my  life  happy, 
and  to  afford  valuable  assistance  to  you 
all.  Now  shall  I  die  contented,  since  He 
who  taketh  care  of  the  birds  of  the  air, 
hath,  by  means  of  a  Robin  Redbreast, 
so  lovingly  provided  for  us  all." 


TO  MY  ABSENT  DAUGHTER. 
By  Mrs.  Sigourney. 

Where  art  thou,  bird  of  song  ? 

Brightest  one  and  dearest ! 
Other  groves  among, 

Other  nests  thou  cheerest ; 
Sweet  thy  warbling  skill 

To  each  ear  that  heard  thee, 
But  'twas  sweetest  still 

To  the  heart  that  rear'd  thee. 


Lamb,  where  dost  thou  rest  ? 

On  strange  bosoms  lying  ? 
Flowers,  thy  path  that  drest, 

All  uncropp'd  are  dying; 


132  TO  MY  ABSENT  DAUGHTER. 

Streams  where  thou  didst  roam 
Murmur  on  without  thee  : 

Lovest  thou  still  thy  home  ? 
Can  thy  mother  doubt  thee  ? 


Seek  thy  Saviour's  flock, 

To  his  blest  fold  going, 
Seek  that  smitten  rock 

Whence  our  peace  is  flowing; 
Still  should  love  rejoice, 

Whatsoe'er  betide  thee, 
If  that  Shepherd's  voice 

Evermore  might  guide  thee. 


FAREWELL   TO   THE  TEAR. 
Br  Mrs.  Sarah  J.  Hale. 

Farewell  !  thy  destiny  is  done, 

Thy  ebbing  sands  we  tell, — 
Blended  and  set  with  centuries  gone, 

Thou  dying  Year,  farewell ! 

Gifts    from    thy    hand — Spring's   joyous 
leaves, 

And  Summer's  fragrant  flowers, 
Autumn's  bright  fruit  and  bursting  sheaves; 

— These  blessings  have  been  ours : 


They  pass  with  thee — even  now  they  seem 

Like  tales  of  fairy  spell, 
Or  like  some  sweet  remember 'd  dream  ; — 

We  bid  those  gifts  farewell ! 


134 


FAREWELL  TO  THE  YEAR. 


Though  frail  the  fair,  rich  things  of  earth, 
Must  mind's  bright  hopes  be  trail  ? 

And  those  pure  thoughts,  that  owed  their 
birth 
To  thee, — thus  with  thee  fail  ? 

Not  if  the  soul  but  gird  her  might, 
Her  treasures  guard  with  care, — 

The  storm-swell'd  stream,  that  sweeps  the 
height, 
But  lays  the  rich  mine  bare. 


The  high  resolve,  the  holy  fear, 
Waked  by  thy  passing  knell, 

O  take  not  these,  thou  dying  Year ! — 
We  bid  not  these  farewell ! 


-     . 


"  She  forgot  to  water  the  heautiful  flowers  in 
the  halJ  of  the  castle,  which  were  entrusted  to 
her  care,  and  they  withered  and  perished  " — 
Page  138. 


ITTLE  Minna 
was  a  kind,  ten- 
der-hearted girl, 
who  willingly 
shared  all  she 
had  with  others, 
gave  clothes  to 
poor  children,  prepared  broth  and  other 
food  for  the  sick,  carried  it  to  them  with 
her  own  hands,  and,  in  a  word,  was 
never  so  happy  as  when  she  could  re- 
lieve the  wants  of  others,  with  the  last 


138 


THE  FOKGET-ME-NOT. 


penny  of  her  own  pocket-money.  But 
with  all  her  good  qualities,  incredible 
as  it  may  appear,  she  often  caused  great 
annoyance  to  good  people — for  she  was 
very  forgetful.  She  made  many  prom- 
ises— and  forgot  them  all  next  day.  She 
often  gave  a  large  price  for  a  thing  she 
did  not  want ;  and  it  was  only  when  a 
poor  person  appealed  to  her  charity, 
that  she  began  to  think  what  good  use 
she  could  have  made  of  her  money.  At 
another  time,  she  forgot  to  water  the 
beautiful  flowers  in  the  hall  of  the  castle, 
which  were  intrusted  to  her  care,  and 
they  withered  and  perished,  to  the  great 
grief  of  her  mother.  At  another  time, 
poor  Minna — she,  who  would  give  her 
own  clothes  to  the  poor,  and  would  not 
hurt  the  smallest  thing  that  breathes — 
would  forget  her  own  dear  Canary  bird, 
and  starve  it  to  death. 


THE  FORGET-ME-NOT.  139 

In  the  village,  not  far  from  Minna's 
paternal  castle,  there  lived  Sophia,  a  poor 
little  girl.  Her  father,  Colonel  Bruhl,  a 
worthy  old  soldier,  had  been  disabled 
by  his  wounds  in  foreign  service,  and 
was  now  living  on  his  pension.  He  had 
returned  to  his  native  land,  to  spend 
the  remainder  of  his  days  in  peace.  But 
his  scanty  income  was  scarcely  sufficient 
for  his  support.  His  pension  was  not 
paid  regularly,  and  many  months  had 
elapsed  just  then,  without  bringing  any 
remittance  to  him. 

Sophia,  his  only  daughter,  supported 
him,  in  the  mean  time,  with  her  needle, 
and  other  useful  accomplishments  of  her 
sex,  She  was  a  great  favorite  of  Min- 
na's, who  gave  her  a  great  deal  of 
work,  took  lessons  from  her  in  embroi- 
dery, paid  her  most  liberally,  and  never 
addressed    her   with    a    less    affectionate 


140  THE  FORGET-ME-NOT. 

name  than  her  dear  friend.  But  even 
this  dear  friend  often  suffered  severely 
from  Minna's  forgetfulness. 


Minna's  mother  fell  dangerously  ill. 
The  most  eminent  physician  of  the  near- 
est town  was  called  in ;  and  Minna  had 
promised  that  he  should  pay  a  visit  to 
Sophia's  father,  who  still,  after  the  lapse 
of  so  many   years,  often   suffered   great 


THE    FORGET-ME-NOT.  141 

torments  from  his  wounds.  Sophia  had 
no  sooner  heard  of  the  physician's  visit 
to  the  castle,  than  she  ran  with  all  speed 
to  remind  Minna  of  her  promise,  but 
before  she  arrived,  the  physician  was 
gone.  Minna  remembered  her  promise 
the  moment  Sophia  appeared — she  was 
confused — confounded — she  blushed,  beg- 
ged Sophia's  pardon,  and  expressed  such 
hearty  sympathy  for  the  sufferings  of 
the  poor  officer,  that  the  tears  streamed 
down  her  cheeks.  But  the  physician — 
alas  !  to  call  him  back,  was  impossible. 

On  another  occasion,  Minna  proposed, 
with  the  help  of  Sophia,  to  embroider 
a  screen  for  her  mother's  birth-day.  Ac- 
cordingly, Minna  brought  to  her  young 
friend  a  beautifully  painted  pattern,  rep- 
resenting a  garland  of  flowers.  "  We 
can  easily  work  the  garland,"  said  So- 
phia ;    "  but  I   must  go  to    town    myself 


142  THE  FORGET-ME-NOT. 

and  purchase  the  silk ;  for  it  requires 
an  experienced  eye  to  select  proper  silk, 
to  represent,  truthfully,  the  delicate  shades 
and  tints  of  the  flowers." 

"  That's  the  best  plan,"  answered  Min- 
na ;  "  if  you,  my  kind  friend,  be  so  good 
as  to  take  the  trouble.  In  the  mean 
time,  during  your  absence,  I  will  take 
care  of  your  father,  and  prepare  his  din- 
ner, and  bring  it  to  him  with  my  own 
hands." 

Sophia  relied  on  her  young  friend's 
promise,  and  started  for  town.  But,  un- 
fortunately, it  so  happened  that  a  dis- 
tinguished visiter  drove  from  town  to 
visit  the  castle,  and,  amid  the  distrac- 
tions and  pleasure  of  this  visit,  Minna 
forgot  her  promise.  The  poor  officer 
was  confined  to  his  room.  He  could 
not  stir ;  and  as  all  his  neighbors  were 
out  in  the  meadows  at  the  hay-making. 


THE  FORGET-ME-NOT.  143 

no  person  was  within  call.  Bread  and 
water  were  his  only  fare — while  all  the 
luxuries  of  life  were  plenteously  circula- 
ting at  the  festive  board  of  the  castle. 

Next  morning  Minna,  accompanied  by 
two  young  ladies,  her  visiters,  went  to 
walk  in  the  village.  Sophia  was  water- 
ing a  piece  of  linen,  the  production  of 
her  industrious  winter  evenings — which 
she  had  laid  out  to  bleach  on  the  small 
green  plot,  between  her  house  and  the 
stream.  Minna's  heart  smote  her  when 
she  saw  Sophia,  for  it  was  then  only  she 
remembered  her  promise.  But  Sophia 
was  too  delicate  to  upbraid  her  friend 
in  presence  of  the  strangers.  Still  she 
felt  strongly  inclined  to  convey  some 
intimation,  that,  henceforward,  she  ought 
not  to  be  so  forgetful,  at  least,  in  such 
matters.  Sophia  invited  the  three  young 
ladies  to  see  her  garden.     They  entered, 


144  THE   FORGET-ME-NOT. 

and  admired  the  beautiful  rose-trees  which 
she  had  planted  with  her  own  hand,  and 
the  forget-me-nots  which  grew  wild  on 
the  brink  of  the  stream.  She  then  con- 
ducted them  into  her  parlor,  and,  at  the 
request  of  Minna,  showed  them  all  her 
work.  While  the  young  ladies  were  en- 
gaged admiring  the  beautiful  patterns, 
and  exquisite  embroidery,  Sophia  return- 
ed to  the  garden  and  selected  some 
flowers.  To  the  two  strangers  she  gave 
roses  ;  but  to  the  forgetful  Minna,  a 
bunch  of  forget-me-nots  —  simply,  but 
tastefully  wreathed  with  some  green 
leaves.  Minna  understood  the  meaning 
of  this  present.  She  was  deeply  sensible 
of  the  refined  delicacy  of  her  friend's 
device,  and  thanked  her,  with  her  whole 
soul,  for  having  taken  this  means  to  ad- 
monish her  of  her  forgetfulness.  "  Truly, 
you  know  the  flowers  that  become  me 


THE   FORGET-ME-NOT. 


145 


best,"  said  she,  blushing,  and  placing  the 
blue  nosegay  on  her  bosom. 

Minna  returned,  with  the  two  young 
ladies,  to  the  castle,  and  accompanied 
them  to  the  apartments  that  were  pre- 
pared for  them.  They  placed  their  flow- 
ers in  a  crystal  vase  near  the  window. 
After  the  lapse  of  a  few  weeks,  Minna 
happened  to  enter  that  chamber ;  the 
young  visiters  had  carried  away  their 
own  flowers,  but  there  stood  Minna's 
"  forget-me-nots,"  which,  to  this  very  mo- 
ment, she  had  completely  forgotten.  The 
fragrant  leaves,  which  she  had  wound 
around  her  nosegay,  were  withered,  but 
the  forget-me-nots,  themselves,  were  of 
as  fresh  and  vivid  a  blue  as  on  the  day 
they  were  gathered  from  the  river's  brink. 
Minna  was  not  a  little  amazed.  "  How 
is  this  possible,"  said  she  ;  "  there  is  not 
a  drop  of  water  in  the  glass,  and  all  the 


146 


THE   FORGET-ME-NOT. 


other  shrubs  are  as  yellow  and  shrivelled 
as  autumnal  leaves."  She  examined  the 
bunch  more  closely,  and  discovered  that 
the  forget-me-nots  were  not  natural,  but 
artificial.  Sophia  was  a  perfect  mistress 
of  that  delightful  art  of  imitating  natural 
flowers — she  had  made  these  forget-me- 
nots  with  her  own  hand — and  so  cor- 
rect was  the  outline,  so  true  and  nat- 
ural the  coloring,  that  it  required  no 
ordinary  skill  to  distinguish  them  from 
real  flowers. 

"  You  are  perfectly  right,  kind  So- 
phia," thought  Minna,  "  I  understand  you 
perfectly.  Indeed,  I  stand  too  much  in 
need  of  some  such  admonition.  These 
unfading  flowers  are  a  perpetual  warn- 
ing to  me  '  not  to  forget :'  never — never 
more,  dear  friend,  will  I  forget  thee. 
These  very  flowers  shall  I  henceforth 
use,  to  remind  me  of  my  duty." 


THE    FORGETOIE-NOT.  147 

Without  further  delav,  she  took  the 
blooming  forget-me-nots,  with  their  with- 
ered wreath,  and  placed  them  in  a  beau- 
tiful crystal  vase,  elegantly  ornamented. 
Then  hastening  away  to  her  friend,  So- 
phia, she  cordially  thanked  her  for  her 
happy  device,  and  praised  the  exquisite 
skill  and  taste  she  had  shown  in  making 
the  flowers.  "  Whenever  I  make  a  prom- 
ise, henceforward,"  said  she,  "  I  will  set 
these  flowers  on  my  work-table  or  piano, 
and  not  allow  them  to  be  removed  by 
any  person  but  myself,  when  my  promise 
is  fulfilled." 

"  Bravo,  bravo,"  exclaimed  the  old 
colonel,  "  do  so.  Whenever  I  wish  to 
remember  any  thing  particularly,  I  al- 
ways place  a  piece  of  white  paper  on 
my  box,  and  my  sergeant  used  to  make 
a  mark  in  his    pocket-book  ;   but,  for  a 

young   lady,   flowers    are   the   most   ap- 

2* 


148  THE  FORGET-ME-NOT. 

propriate  memento.  I  admire  the  happy 
suggestion,  which  led  men  to  select  the 
most  beautiful  flowers  in  the  field,  as  a 
memento  of  sweet  associations,  and  call 
them  forget-me-nots ;  but  I  admire,  still 
more,  the  idea  of  using  them  to  remind  us 
of  our  duties,  especially  the  sacred  duties 
of  charity.  Happy  thought,  indeed — it 
delights  me — it  is  a  most  happy  thought." 
Minna  kept  her  word,  and  the  forget- 
me-nots  secured  many  blessings  to  her- 
self and  to  the  poor.  Many  a  poor  per- 
son, whom  Minna  would  have  forgotten, 
had  to  thank  those  sweet  flowers  for  a 
bowl  of  good  soup,  or  a  glass  of  wine, 
or  a  piece  of  bread.  Many  a  duty,  once 
carelessly  neglected,  was  now  punctually 
discharged — and  many  a  sorrow  and  re- 
morse of  conscience,  and  painful  remem- 
brance, were  now  spared  to  Minna,  by 
the  silent  forget-me-nots. 


THE  FORGET-ME-NOT. 


149 


The  great  improvement  in  her  habits 
was  soon  obvious  to  the  fond  eye  of 
her  mother.  "  How  is  it,"  she  asked, 
"  that  you  do  not  forget  the  slightest 
thing  now  ?  What  has  caused  this  great 
change  ?" 

Minna  told  the  whole  story  of  the 
forget-me-nots,  with  which  her  mother 
was  highly  pleased.  "  You  are  good 
children,"  said  she,  "  and  I  must  find 
some  means  of  making  you  happy."  She 
accordingly  purchased,  from  the  gold- 
smith in  the  town,  two  rings  of  the 
purest  gold,  and  had  set  on  each  of  them 
a  forget-me-not  in  precious  stones — five 
sky-blue  sapphires,  and  a  yellow  diamond 
stone  in  the  centre. 


150 


THE   FORGET-ME-NOT. 


When  the  rings  came  home,  she  gave 
one  of  them  to  Minna.  "  Make  the  same 
use  of  this  ring,"  said  she,  "  as  you  have 
formerly  made  of  the  forget-me-nots. 
Whenever  you  make  a  promise,  or  are 
engaged  in  any  important  concern,  put 
this  forget-me-not  ring  on  your  finger, 
and  do  not  lay  it  aside,  until  you  have 
fulfilled  that  promise,  or  performed  your 
business.  This  other  ring,  I  intend  for 
your  good  friend,  Sophia,  whose  suc- 
cessful device  for  reforming  your  for- 
getful habits,  eminently  deserves  some 
acknowledgment  at  my  hands.  That 
plain  '  forget-me-not,'  which  she  present- 
ed to  you,  is  of  infinitely  greater  value 
than  the  ring  which  I  now  present  to 
her." 

Minna  hurried  away  to  present  the 
ring  to  her  friend.  "  Oh !"  said  she, 
"  you  have  no  need  of  such  a  ring.     You 


THE   FORGET-ME-NOT. 


151 


never  forget  any  thing.  Still,  accept 
and  wear  this  ring,  as  a  keepsake  from 
a  friend,  on  whom  your  simple  flower 
has  conferred  a  priceless  benefit." 


11  Ah  !  my  dear  friend,"  said  Sophia, 
"  who  is  the  person  that  does  not  some- 
times require  to  be  reminded  of  his  duty? 
Whenever  we  look  on  this  costly  forget- 
me-not,  may  we  resolve  to  do  some  good 


152  THE   FORGET-ME-NOT. 

act ;  to  relieve  some  poor  person ;  or 
to  do  whatever  is  in  our  power  to  make 
others  happy."  Both  promised  faithfully 
to  carry  that  resolution  into  effect. 

"  Well  resolved,  my  children,"  said  the 
colonel,  "  and  whoever  cannot  wear  so 
costly  a  ring  as  yours,  may  he  still  make 
your  good  resolution,  whenever  he  sees 
the  forget-me-not  growing  wild  in  the 
meadow  or  on  the  river's  brink.  But 
above  all,  may  that  sweet  flower  remind 
him  of  Him  that  made  him,  and  whom 
every  flower  should  bring  to  our  minds. 
Then  would  every  forget-me-not  that 
grows  in  our  fields,  be  of  more  real 
value  than  if  its  stem  were  of  gold,  and 
its  leaves  of  the  most  costly  diamonds." 

This  adventure  of  the  forget-me-nots 
was  attended  with  other  good  effects. 
When  stern  winter  set  in,  and  all  the 
fields    around    the    castle    were    clothed 


THE  FORGET-ME-NOT.  153 

every  morning  in  their  chilly  mantle  of 
hoar-frost,  and  the  hoarse  winds  howled 
through  the  halls,  Minna  and  her  mother 
returned  to  their  town  residence.  The 
story  of  the  forget-me-not  was  circulated 
among  Minna's  numerous  acquaintances, 
and  forget-me-not  rings  became  a  fashion. 
Every  person  knew  the  circumstance  that 
led  to  the  adoption  of  the  ring — and  the 
prince  himself  now  remembered  that 
good  old  colonel,  whom  he  had  formerly 
trusted  and  esteemed.  The  paymaster, 
who  had  forgotten  to  pay  the  pension, 
soon  received  a  royal  admonition,  which 
he  could  not  easily  forget ;  and  the  poor 
colonel,  whose  wants  had  been  previously 
unknown,  was  rewarded  with  a  con- 
siderable augmentation  of  pay.  For  this 
unexpected  change  of  his  fortunes,  many 
a  time  did  the  grateful  old  soldier  ex- 
claim,   "  How   great    are    the    blessings 


154 


THE  FORGET-ME-NOT. 


which    God    has    poured    down    on   me 
and  others  through  that   simpie  Forget 
me-not  I' 


Fred  thought  he  had  never  feasted   so   sumptu- 
ously. ' — Page  161. 


H. 


OUNG  FRED,  a  gay  live- 
?jm  ly  boy  about  ten  years  old, 

was  the  son  of  the  wood- 
ranger  at  Grunenthal.  His  father  received 
a  letter  one  morning,  which  he  was  to  carry 
from  Herr  von  Grunenthal  to  Rauhen- 
stein,  a  castle  that  lay  beyond  very  high 
mountains,  and  in  the  heart  of  a  thick 
forest. 

"  It  will  be  a  hard  journey,"  said  the 


158  THE   CAKES. 

father,  "  especially  as  the  hurt  I  got  the 
other  day  in  the  foot,  when  we  were  hunt- 
ing, is  not  yet  healed.  From  here  to  Rau- 
henstein  is  three  good  leagues.  But  since 
our  good  master  orders  it,  I  must  obey." 

But  Fred  offered  to  carry  the  letter. 
"  Send  me,  dear  father,"  he  said.  "  The 
whole  road,  I  know,  goes  through  a  forest, 
but  I  do  not  mind  that.  I  know  it  well 
from  this  to  our  own  bounds,  and  can  easily 
find  out  the  rest  of  it,  and  safely  give  the 
letter  into  the  hands  of  Herr  von  Rauhen- 
stein." 

"  Very  well,"  said  the  father ;  "  give  the 
letter  into  his  own  hands — you  know  him 
well.  There  is  a  large  sum  of  money  in 
the  letter ;  perhaps  you  may  get  something 
for  your  trouble."  He  then  described  the 
road  for  Fred,  from  their  own  bounds  to 
Rauhenstein. 

The  little  fellow  buckled  on  his  hunting- 


THE   CAKES. 


159 


pouch,  and  slinging  his  fowlingpiece  over 
his  shoulder,  started  on  his  journey. 

He  arrived  safe  at  the  castle,  and  told 
the  servants  that  he  had  been  directed  to 
deliver  the  letter  into  the  master's  own 
hand.  A  servant  led  him  up  the  broad 
stone  steps,  into  a  splendid  apartment, 
where  von  Rauhenstein  was  eno-asfed  with 
a  party  of  officers  at  the  card-table.  Fred 
made  his  best  bow  to  the  gentlemen,  and 
delivered  his  letter,  in  which,  it  appeared, 
there  were  one  hundred  gold  pieces.  Herr 
von  Rauhenstein  went  to  his  writing-desk, 
and  wrote  a  few  lines,  acknowledging  the 
receipt  of  the  money.  "  All  right,"  said 
he,  sitting  down  in  a  hurry  to  the  card- 
table.  "  You  can  retire  now — no  other 
answer  is  at  present  necessary — it  will 
follow  you." 

With  a  heavy  heart  poor  Fred  returned 
down  the  broad  stone  stairs ;  for  he  was 


THE   CAKES. 

hungry  and  thirsty,  and  quite  tired.  But 
as  he  was  passing  through  the  court,  he 
was  met  by  the  cook,  who  was  coming 
out  of  the  garden,  with  a  large  knife  in 
one  hand  and  cauliflowers  in  the  other. 
She  knew  by  the  poor  boy's  face,  the  state 
of  his  feelings. 

"  Come  with  me,  little  forester,"  said 
she,  kindly,  "  and  I  will  give  you  some 
bread  and  a  drink  of*  good  beer.  You 
might  otherwise  faint  upon  the  road — you 
are  far  from  home — and  there  is  not  a 
single  house  on  the  way.  You  must  not 
take  it  ill  of  our  master,  that  he  offered 
you  nothing  to  eat :  he  does  not  think  of 
such  things  ;  yet  he  finds  no  fault  when 
we  give  something  to  people." 

The  cook  led  Fred  into  the  kitchen, 
where  the  large  fire  was  blazing  on  the 
hearth.  "  Lay  aside  your  pouch  and  fowl- 
ingpiece,    and   sit  down   here,"  said   she, 


THE   CAKES.  161 

pointing  to  a  little  table  in  the  corner  of 
the  kitchen.  She  then  brought  him  plenty 
of  soup  and  meat,  vegetables  and  bread, 
and  a  small  pot  of  beer.  Fred  thought  he 
had  never  been  feasted  so  sumptuously. 
He  was  refreshed  and  ready  for  his  jour- 
ney ;  but  before  he  started  he  said  to  the 
cook,  one  hundred  times,  at  least,  "  God 
reward  you ;"  and  that,  too,  with  as  much 
reverence  as  if  she  had  been  the  lady  of 
the  castle.  He  even  kissed  her  hand,  al- 
though she  tried  to  prevent  him. 

Happy  as  a  prince,  Fred  set  out  on  his 
journey.  But  when  he  had  been  nearly 
a  half  hour  on  the  road,  he  saw  a  squirrel 
in  an  open  space  in  the  forest.  The  little 
animal  was  quite  a  rarity  to  him,  for  he 
had  scarcely  ever  seen  one  in  the  forest 
of  Grunenthal.  Fred  was  very  young, 
and,  perhaps,  the  good  beer  had  got  into 
his  head,  but,  at  all  events,  he  resolved  to 


162 


THE   CAKES. 


take  the  squirrel  alive.  He  flung  a  piece 
of  a  rotten  bough  at  the  little  animal,  and 
started  in  full  chase,  from  oak  to  oak,  into 
the  depths  of  the  black  forest,  where  he 
lost  sight  of  his  game,  and  what  was  much 
more  serious,  lost  the  road.  He  wandered 
about  during  the  rest  of  the  day,  and  half 
the  succeeding  night,  through  the  thick 
forest,  till,  at  last,  sinking  with  hunger  and 
fatigue,  he  crept  beneath  some  low  bushes, 
and  fell  into  a  troubled  sleep.  He  rose  in 
the  morning,  more  faint  than  he  had  been 
before  he  lay  down.  He  looked  around, 
and  advanced  he  knew  not  whither.  The 
place  was  utterly  unknown  to  him.  The 
wild  deer,  starting  up  and  bounding  off  in 
terror  when  they  saw  him,  convinced  him 
that  he  must  be  in  the  heart  of  some  un- 
frequented wood.  A  herd  of  swine  cross- 
ed his  path,  and  among  them  a  huge  boar, 
which  threatened  him  with  its  sharp  tushes, 


THE   CAKES. 


163 


and  made  the  poor  boy  scream  in  agony, 
and  fly  for  his  life.  He  continued  to  wan- 
der about  until  noonday,  when,  unable  to 
move  farther,  he  tottered  and  fell  exhausted 
to  the  ground.  He  cried  and  called  as 
loud  as  he  could,  but  there  was  no  answer 
except  the  echo  of  his  voice  in  the  silent 
forest.  He  could  nowhere  find  a  berry 
or  even  a  drop  of  water  to  quench  his 
hunger  and  thirst.  He  cast  himself  faint 
and  despairing  at  the  foot  of  a  pine-tree. 
He  earnestly  prayed  to  God  not  to  let 
him  famish  in  the  forest.  Tormented 
bv  hunger,  he  searched  in  his  pouch,  to 
find,  if  possible,  a  few  crumbs  of  the  bread 
which  he  had  brought  with  him  from  home, 
and  eaten  on  the  road  to  Rauhenstein. 
But  what  was  his  joy — his  rapture,  on  find- 
ing a  large  piece  of  cake  and  some  juicy 
pears.  "  Oh  !'"'  said  he,  "  it  was  the  cook 
put  these  here,  without  my  knowledge." 


1G4  THE  CAKES. 

The  poor  boy  shed  tears  of  gratitude,  and 
resolved  that  he  would  be  always  charita- 
ble to  the  needy,  especially  if  they  were 
strangers  ;  and  also,  that  if  ever  he  were 
rich  enough,  he  certainly  would  not  forget 
that  kindness  of  the  good  cook.  "  Under 
God,"  said  he,  "  it  was  she  that  saved  my 
life.  If  she  had  not  given  me  the  cake 
and  pears,  I  should  have  perished  here  in 
the  wild  forest." 

Fred  rose,  refreshed  and  strengthened, 
and  proceeded  onward  again  with  renew- 
ed courage.  He  walked  on  in  the  direction 
of  Grunenthal,  as  well  as  he  could  judge 
by  the  position  of  the  sun,  and  after  having 
advanced  for  about  a  league,  he  heard  the 
cheering  sounds  of  the  woodman's  axe  in 
the  distance.  Hurrying  on  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  sounds,  he  found  two  men  cut- 
ting down  a  large  pine-tree.  They  point- 
ed out  the  road  to  Grunenthal,  where  he 


THE   CAKES. 


165 


arrived  safely  to  the  great  joy  of  his  pa- 
rents, who  had  been  dreadfully  alarmed  on 
his  account. 

His  father  reproved  him  severely,  and 
gave  him  good  advice.  "  Thus  it  is,"  said 
he,  among  other  things,  "  when  men  allow 
themselves  to  be  drawn  away  from  the 
right  road  to  follow  their  pleasures.  You 
might  have  perished  in  that  wild  wood  far 
from  your  father's  house,  without  the  poor 
consolation  even  of  catching  that,  squirrel. 
Our  way  through  life  is  like  a  road  through 
a  wild  forest,  where  many  a  pleasure,  like 
that  alluring  little  animal,  seeks  to  entice 
us  from  the  path  of  virtue.  As  I,  dear 
Fred,  faithfully  described  to  you  the  right 
road  through  the  forest,  so  God  points  out 
to  us  in  his  commandments  the  true  path 
for  our  pilgrimage  through  this  world.  Let 
no  earthly  pleasure  ever  seduce  you  to  the 
right  or  the  left  from  the  way  of  virtue. 


106 


THE   CAKES. 


One  false  step  might  ruin  you  forever,  and 
prevent  you  from  entering  your  true  Fa- 
ther's house  beyond  the  grave. 

"  The  love  of  pleasure,"  he  continued, 
"  perverts  the  heart  of  man,  and  makes 
him  insensible  to  noble  and  generous  feel- 
ings. Herr  von  Rauhenstein,  with  whom 
you  are  so  much  displeased,  is  far  from 
being  a  bad  man.  But  he  was  so  much 
taken  up  with  his  play,  that  he  never 
thought  either  of  giving  you  some  refresh- 
ment, though  you  stood  so  much  in  need 
of  it,  or  some  money,  though  the  hundredth 
part  of  what  he  had  staked  that  morning, 
would  have  sent  you  home  as  happy  as  a 
prince.  But  guard  yourself  against  that, 
which  displeases  you  so  much  in  another ; 
let  your  pleasure  or  your  own  will  never 
engage  you,  so  as  to  make  you  insensible 
to  the  wants  and  happiness  of  others.  Imi- 
tate whatever  you  find  good  in  others ;  be 


BO^H^HH 


THE   CAKES. 


107 


ever  as  kind  and  generous  to  all  men,  as 
Rosalie,  the  cook,  was  to  vou  in  the  castle 
of  Rauhenstein." 

Fred  grew  up  a  good  forester,  faithful 
and  true  to  his  employer,  open  and  generous 
to  all,  and  without  one  stain  on  his  good 
name.  But  he  was  particularly  remarkable 
for  his  kindness  and  charity  to  travellers 
and  the  poor.  He  never  forgot  Rosalie's 
kindness.  He  went  to  the  castle,  once,  to 
tell  her  how  much  she  had  done  for  him, 
but  she  had  left  the  service,  and  no  person 
could  give  him  any  account  of  her.  From 
that  day  forward  he  never  got  any  intelli- 
gence of  his  kind  benefactress. 

In  the  course  of  some  years,  Fred  was 
promoted  for  his  integrity  and  skill  to  the 
office  of  chief  huntsman  under  the  king's 
woodranger,  and  afterwards  was  made 
forester  of  Tannek,  one  of  the  most  lu- 
crative posts  in  the  gift  of  his  master. 
2* 


168 


THE   CAKES. 


After  his  marriage,  he  often  told  his  wife, 
who  was  as  benevolent  as  himself,  of  many 
adventures  of  his  boyish  days,  and,  especial- 
ly, how  he  had  been  saved  from  certain 
death  in  the  forest,  by  the  kindness  of  Ro- 
salie. They  resolved  that  since  they  could 
not  find  her,  they  would  prove  their  sense 
of  her  goodness,  by  as  liberal  charity  to 
travellers  and  the  poor,  as  their  means 
allowed.  They  had  a  good  opportunity 
of  indulging  their  charitable  dispositions, 
as  the  forester's  lodge,  in  which  they  lived, 
lay  on  the  border  of  the  forest  near  the 
high  road. 

Fred's  wife  went  one  very  sultry  after- 
noon to  bring  a  glass  of  water  from  the 
well.  There  she  found  a  poor  woman 
sitting  on  the  bench  which  her  husband 
had  made  under  the  shady  pines,  near  the 
well,  for  the  accommodation  of  travellers. 
The   strange   woman,   though    clean  and 


THE   CAKES.  169 

neatly  dressed,  was  evidently  poor,  and 
appeared  very  tired  and  unhappy.  A 
wicker  basket  and  her  walking-stick  lay 
near  her  on  the  bench.  Struck  by  the 
mild    and    wo-begone    expression    of   her 


countenance,  Fred's  wife  saluted  her  cor- 
dially, and  invited  her  to  the  lodge  to  take 
some  refreshment.  The  stranger  grate- 
fully accepted  the  kind  offer,  and  entered 
the  house.     Fred's  wife  served  up  a  rem- 


170 


THE   CAKES. 


nant  of  roast  venison,  and  poured  out  for 
her  a  glass  of  beer.  The  two  soon  became 
so  sociable  that  the  stranger  told  the  whole 
history  of  what  was  weighing  so  heavily 
on  her  heart. 

"  I  live,"  said  she,  "  about  twelve  leagues 
from  this.  My  husband  is  a  gunsmith,  and 
was  able  to  earn  much  money  by  making 
rifles,  muskets,  and  pistols.  He  worked 
day  and  night,  so  that  we  were  able  not 
only  to  support  ourselves  and  the  two  chil- 
dren with  whom  heaven  has  blessed  us, 
but  also  to  lay  aside  something  for  the 
future.  But  latterly  it  was  the  will  of  God 
to  send  us  many  hard  trials.  My  hus- 
band's hand  was  hurt  so  severely  by  the 
bursting  of  a  new  musket  which  lie  was 
trying,  that  he  has  not  been  able  to  work 
during  the  last  year.  The  war  which 
ravaged  our  neighborhood  had  already 
stripped    us    of  the    greater   part   of  our 


THE    CAKES. 


171 


property.  The  doctor's  bill  still  continued 
a  heavy  drain,  and  as  we  had  no  money 
coming  in,  we  were  badly  able  to  meet 
it — but.  to  crown  all  our  misfortunes,  we 
lost  our  only  cow  by  the  murrain.  We 
had  already  raised  money  on  the  credit  of 
our  lands  and  house,  and  had  no  means 
left  of  replacing  our  cow,  as  the  neighbors 
would  not  lend  the  money.  Without  a 
cow  we  could  not  live  :  so  I  resolved  to 
undertake  a  Ions  iournev  to  my  brother, 
hoping  that  he  would  give  the  money.  I 
did  make  that  long  journey,  and  I  am  now 
on  my  way  home.  I  told  him  my  hard 
case,  and  begged  his  help.  Twenty  or 
thirtv  crowns  would  have  bought  a  cow 
for  me.  My  brother  was  willing  enough 
to  help  me,  but  his  wife  would  not  allow 
him  to  give  me  a  penny.  She  was  dis- 
pleased with  me,  she  said,  because  I  had 
married  a  man  who  had  no  property.     All 


172 


THE   CAKES. 


I  got  was  a  small  sum,  that  my  brother 
slipped  secretly  into  my  hand,  but  it  will 
hardly  cover  half  the  expenses  of  my  jour- 
ney. But  it  was  all  the  pocket-money 
he  had  then  at  his  disposal.  Alas!"  she 
sighed,  wiping  the  tears  from  her  eyes,  "  I 
pity  my  brother,  and  still  more,  my  poor 
husband  and  children.  They  are  anxiously 
praying  for  my  return,  and  expecting  some 
help  :  what  a  grief  it  will  be  to  them,  when 
I  meet  them  with  empty  hands !" 

At  this  moment  the  forester  returned 
home,  with  his  bag  well  stocked  with  game. 
He  saluted  the  poor  stranger  kindly.  His 
wife  told  him  how  she  had  invited  her  to 
come  in,  and  what  a  melancholy  tale  had 
just  been  told. 

"  Right,  right,  Dora,"  said  Fred,  "  it 
makes  my  heart  glad,  to  see  you  acting 
as  I  would,  consoling  the  poor  stranger, 
and  giving  her  a  share  of  what  God  has 


THE   CAKES.  173 

given  to  us.  Generosity,  especially  to 
strangers  and  travellers,  is  a  most  sacred 
duty. 

"'  And  good  reason  I  have  to  say  so," 
said  he.  taking  a  chair  and  sitting  down 
near  the  woman,  while  his  wife  placed 
a  glass  of  ale  on  the  table  before  him. 
He  then  told  his  boyish  adventure  in  the 
forest,  and  how  he  had  been  saved  from 
starvation,  by  the  kindness  of  Rosalie,  the 
good  cook  of  Rauhenstein. 

"  Good  God !"  exclaimed  Rosalie,  clasp- 
ing her  hands,  "  I  am  that  cook.  Rosalie 
is  my  name.  Frederic  is  yours — and  your 
father  was  forester  of  Grunenthal.  I  can 
tell  you  some  particulars  you  omitted  in 
your  story.  The  food  that  I  set  before 
you  consisted  of  soup,  green  peas  and  car- 
rots, with  smoked  beef — and  the  beer-glass 
had  a  pewter  cover,  with  a  stag  stamped 
on  it,  which  particularly  struck  your  fancy. 


174 


THE   CAKES. 


You  were  very  much  displeased  with  Herr 
von  Rauhenstein,  and  remarked  that  he  was 
true  to  his  name,  but  I  told  you  he  was  a 
better  man  than  he  appeared  to  be.  When 
you  left  me,  you  kissed  my  hand,  out  of 
gratitude,  but  against  my  will.  Words 
cannot  tell  how  happy  I  am,  that  the  bit 
of  cake  saved  your  life,  and  that  I  see  you 
now  so  happy  and  independent.  Wonder- 
ful are  the  ways  of  God — I  should  never 
have  recognised  you.  The  slender,  little 
forester  is  now  grown  an  able  and  fine- 
looking  man,  and  God,  as  I  see,  has  blessed 
you  in  all  things." 

The  forester  now  expressed  his  joy  on 
meeting  his  old  friend,  and  bade  her  a 
thousand  welcomes.  "  I  thought  I  knew 
you,"  said  he,  "  when  I  met  you  first,  but 
I  could  not  distinctly  remember  who  you 
were  or  where  I  had  seen  you.  The 
thought    struck    me,    that    you   might   be 


THE   CAKES. 


i-J 


my  friend  Rosalie.,  though  time  had  made 
some  change  in  you.  To  be  sure  of  the 
fact,  I  told  you  my  adventure  in  the  forest. 
God  be  praised !  I  have  found  you  at  last. 
I  am  the  happiest  man  under  the  sun. — 
You  must  not  stir  this  day. — Come,  Dora, 
— the  best  in  your  kitchen  and  cellar  for 
our  friend/5 

Rosalie  pressed  hard  to  be  allowed  to 
depart.  "  By  to-morrow  evening  I  must 
be  at  home,"  said  she.  "  Now  that  the 
heat  of  the  day  is  over,  I  will  walk  a 
few  leagues  farther — the  twelve  leagues 
would  be  too  long  a  journey  for  to-mor- 
row. 

"  That  matter  can  be  easily  managed," 
said  Fred.  "  To-morrow  morning  I  will 
harness  the  pony  to  my  light  wagon, 
and  drive  you  as  far  as  I  can.  I  would 
drive  you  to  your  own  door,  if  I  were 
not  obliged  to  attend  the  prince,  with  the 


— 


176 


THE   CAKES. 


hunting-party  that  are  on  a  vi^sit  with 
him." 

Fred's  wife  was  as  happy  as  himself,  on 
finding  Rosalie.  There  was  no  resisting 
their  united  entreaties.  She  consented  to 
stop  that  night.  The  hostess  prepared  a 
supper  in  her  best  style,  and  at  the  end  of 
the  meal  produced  a  large  cake,  prepared 
in  the  same  way  as  that  which  Rosalie 
had  given  to  Fred.  It  was  wreathed  with 
garlands  of  the  most  beautiful  flowers,  and 
in  the  centre,  the  words  "  To  gratitude," 
were  formed  with  white  sugar,  in  imitation 
of  pearls. 

"  Oh !"  said  Rosalie,  "  don't  cut  that  beau- 
tiful cake.  I  have  dined  so  heartily  I  will 
not  touch  it." 

"  Very  well,"  said  the  hostess,  "  but  then 
you  must  put  the  cake  in  your  basket,  and 
carry  it  home  in  the  morning  to  your  chil- 
dren." 


THE   CAKES. 


177 


Fred  had  ordered  his  best  wine  from 
the  cellar  ;  and  he  and  his  wife  drank  to 
the  health  and  happiness  of  Rosalie  and 
her  family,  and  Rosalie  must  pledge  them. 
"  For  had  it  not  been  for  you,"  said  the 
forester,  "  we  should  not  now  be  sitting 
here,  and  this  house,  in  which  I  and  my 
Dorothy  live  so  happily  together,  would 
have  other  tenants." 

Next  morning,  at  break  of  dav,  Fred 
was  busy  preparing  to  escort  his  old  friend 
to  her  family.  His  wife  had  a  good  break- 
fast on  the  table ;  and  when  all  was  ready, 
she  put  the  large  cake  into  Rosalie's  bas- 
ket, together  with  other  provisions  for  the 
road,  and  some  few  presents  for  the  chil- 
dren. Fred  accompanied  Rosalie  half  the 
journey.  When  he  took  leave  of  her,  he 
promised  to  visit  her  as  soon  as  possible,  and 
to  get  his  fire-arms  repaired  by  her  husband, 
— a  promise  which  he  faithfully  performed. 


178  THE   CAKES. 

Rosalie  continued  her  journey  in  good 
spirits.  When  she  approached  her  house, 
she  saw  her  two  children,  William  and 
Theresa,  advancing  on  the  road  to  meet 
her.  When  they  saw  her,  they  sprung 
forward  with  joyful  cries,  and  asked  what 
she  had  in  the  basket.  "  Oh,  wait  until  we 
reach  home,"  said  she,  "  you  must  not  be 
so  impatient  and  curious." 

Her  husband  met  her  at  the  door,  and 
all  entered  together.  Rosalie  told  the  hard 
reception  she  had  got  from  her  sister-in- 
law,  and  also  announced  the  sad  news, 
that  she  brought  home  no  money.  Her 
husband  was  sadly  disappointed  ;  nor  could 
all  she  said  of  the  happy  night  she  spent 
with  the  forester,  dispel  his  gloom.  Rosalie 
opened  her  basket,  and  produced  the  cake. 
The  sight  of  it  made  the  children  forget 
all  their  sorrows  ;  but  when  the  father  saw 


THE   CAKES. 


179 


them  clapping  their  hands,  and  loudly  ex- 
pressing their  joy,  he  could  scarcely  re- 
press his  tears. 

"  What  good  is  the  cake,"  said  he ;  "where 
are  we  to  get  twenty  or  thirty  guilders,  to 
buy  a  cow  ?" 

But  lo — when  the  mother  tried  to  cu\. 
the  cake  for  the  children,  the  knife  stuck 
so  fast  in  it,  that  all  her  strength  could  not 
divide  it. 

"  This  is  a  singular  cake,"  said  she  ;  "it 
must  have  been  baked  too  much."  She 
broke  the  crust — and  the  first  thin^  that 
met  her  eye,  were  two  thalers  of  gold — 
and  below  them,  in  order,  a  dozen  others. 

Fred's  joy  on  finding  the  cake  in  his 
pouch,  was  not  greater  than  hers,  when 
she  saw  the  glittering  coin.  "  Gracious 
heaven !"  said  she,  "  Frederic  told  his 
wife  to  put  them   in   the  cake,  to  enable 


180 


THE   CAKES. 


us  to  buy  a  cow,  and  to  raise  us  from 
poverty." 

"  The  gold  is  worth  thirty-two  guilders 
and  some  crowns,"  said  little  William, 
who  was  learning  his  table  of  coin  in 
school ;  "  it  will  buy  a  fine  cow  for 
us. 

"  And  then  we  can  have  milk  and  butter 
again,"  said  Theresa,  hopping  about  and 
clapping  her  hands. 

But  the  father  took  off  his  cap,  and 
thanked  God  with  tears,  and  the  mother 
and  children  joined  in  his  prayer.  "  That 
piece  of  cake  which  you  gave,  many 
years  ago,  to  the  little  boy,"  said  he, 
"  was  capita]  well  laid  out ;  we  receive 
it  back  now  a  hundred,  nay,  a  thousand 
fold." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  mother,  "  and  the 
smallest  act  of    kindness,   to  one   of  our 


THE   CAKES. 


181 


brethren,   will  be   much   more   amply  re- 
warded in  heaven." 

"Oh,  my  dear  children,"  added  the  fa- 
ther, "  let  us  be  always  merciful,  that  we 
may  obtain  mercy." 


THE    CHILD'S    GIFT. 


By  Mrs.  S.  F.  Osgood. 

A  child  beside  a  window  stood, 
A  merry  child,  in  smiling  mood ; 
A  little  boy  went  slowly  by, 
A  beggar-boy,  with  pleading  eye. 

Why  did  the  sweet  girl's  sunny  face 
A  sudden  cloud  of  sorrow  wear  ? 

She  mark'd  the  beggar's  lingerini;;  pace, 
Alas !  those  little  feet  were  bare  ! 


She  glanced  a  moment  at  her  own, — 
Her  pretty  shoes  were  bright  and  new,- 

A  quick,  glad  thought  like  sunlight  shorn 
The  trembling  tears  of  pity  through ! 


184 


THE   CHILD'S  GIFT. 


'Twas  done  as  soon  as  thought :  she  b^nt 
Her  soul  on  her  sweet  task  intent ; 
Drew  off  her  shoes  with  eager  joy, 
And  flung  them  to  the  beggar-boy ' 


"  Caroline   ran  and  brought  in,  on  a  -white   porce- 
lain plate,  some  of  the  ripest  cherries." — Page  195. 


Wi 


fjN  the  banks  or 
flff;- ;i  the  Rhine,  in  the 
pleasant  little  village 
of  Rebenheim,  sur- 
rounded by  orchards 
and  vineyards,  lived  Ehrenberg,  the  village 
mayor.  He  was  universally  respected  for 
the  fidelity  with  which  he  discharged  his 
duty,  enforcing  order  and  justice  in  the 
place  intrusted  to  his  care.  His  wife,  too, 
was  beloved  for   her  great  charity  to  the 


188 


THE   CHERRIES. 


poor.  They  had  an  only  daughter — the 
little  Caroline — who  gave  early  promise 
of  a  superior  mind  and  a  benevolent  heart. 
She  was  the  idol  of  her  parents,  who  de- 
voted their  whole  care  to  give  her  a  sound, 
religious  education. 

Not  far  from  the  house,  and  close  by 
the  orchard  and  kitchen-garden,  there  was 
another  little  garden,  planted  exclusively 
with  flowers.  The  day  that  Caroline  was 
born,  her  father  planted  a  cherry-tree  in 
the  middle  of  the  flower-garden.  He  had 
chosen  a  tree  with  a  short  trunk,  in  order 
that  his  little  daughter  could  more  easily 
admire  the  blossoms  and  pluck  the  cherries 
when  they  were  ripe.  When  the  tree 
bloomed  for  the  first  time,  and  was  so 
covered  with  blossoms  that  it  looked  like  a 
single  bunch  of  white  flowers,  the  father 
and  mother  came  out  one  morning  to  en- 
joy the  sight.     Little  Caroline  was  in  her 


THE   CHERRIES. 


189 


mother's  arms :  the  infant  s'miled,  and 
stretching  out  her  little  hands  to  the  blos- 
soms, endeavored,  at  the  same  time,  to 
speak  her  joy,  but  in  such  a  way  as  no  one 
but  a  mother  could  understand  :  "  Flowers, 
flowers,  pretty,  pretty."  The  child  en- 
gaged more  of  the  parents'  thoughts,  than 
all  the  cherry  blossoms,  and  gardens,  and 
orchards,  and  all  they  were  worth.  They 
resolved  to  educate  her  well :  they  prayed 
to  God  to  bless  their  care  and  attention, 
by  making  Caroline  worthy  of  Him,  and 
the  joy  and  consolation  of  her  parents. 

They  spared  no  pains  or  expense  in 
their  parental  solicitude  The  mother 
gave  to  Caroline  her  first  instructions  in 
religion.  She  told  her,  fondly  and  feeling- 
ly, of  that  good  Father  in  heaven,  who 
makes  the  flowers  bloom,  and  the  trees 
bud,  and  the  cherries  and  apples  grow 
ruddy  and  ripe  :  she  told  her,  also,  of  that 


190  THE    CHERRIES. 

Infant  Son  of  God,  who  so  tenderly  loved 
good  children.  She  also  instructed  little 
Caroline  in  the  various  household  duties, 
for  which  her  increasing  strength  and  in- 
telligence qualified  her,  while  the  most 
delightful  and  serious  occupation  of  the 
father's  vacant  hours  was,  to  give  lessons 
to  his  little  daughter  in  reading  and  wri- 
ting. His  garden  was  his  principal,  and, 
in  truth,  his  sole  recreation.  It  was  a 
pleasure  to  him  to  enjoy  the  green  carpet 
and  rich  leaves  of  his  orchard,  after  having 
spent  the  greater  part  of  the  day  in  his 
office  over  his  books.  From  the  first 
dawn  of  spring,  to  the  moment  in  autumn 
when  he  gathered  in  his  fruits,  the  or- 
chard afforded  him  much  employment. 
The  kitchen-garden  was  under  the  care 
of  his  wife  and  the  servant-maid :  but 
from  Caroline's  eighth  year,  the  flower- 
garden  was  intrusted    to  her,  under  the 


THE   CHERRIES. 


191 


superintendence,  however,  of  her  mother. 
Caroline  was  proud  of  her  charge  ;  and 
surpassed,  by  her  diligence  and  taste,  her 
mother's  fondest  anticipations. 

Her  father  gave  the  cherry-tree,  in  the 
centre  of  the  flower-garden,  to  Caroline, 
which  was  to  her  a  greater  treasure  than 
all  the  flowers.  She  watched  and  admired 
it  every  day,  from  the  moment  the  first 
buds  appeared,  until  the  cherries  were 
ripe.  She  grieved,  it  is  true,  when  she 
saw  the  white  blossoms  turn  yellow  and 
drop  to  the  earth,  bat  her  grief  was  changed 
into  joy,  when  she  saw  the  cherries  appear, 
green  at  first,  and  smaller  than  peas,  and 
then  growing  daily  larger  and  larger,  un- 
til the  rich  red  skin  of  the  soft  ripe  cherry, 
at  last  blushed  between  the  screen  leaves. 
"  Thus,  it  is,"  said  her  father,  "  youth  and 
beauty  fade  like  the  blossoms, — but  virtue 
is  the  fruit  which  we  expect  from  the  tree. 


192 


THE    CHERRIES. 


This  whole  world  is,  as  it  were,  a  large 
garden,  in  which  God  has  appointed  to 
every  man  a  place,  that  he  may  bring 
forth  abundant  and  good  fruit.  As  He 
sends  rain  and  sunshine  on  the  trees,  so 
does  He  send  down  grace  on  men,  to 
make  them  grow  in  virtue,  if  they  will 
but  do  their  part." 

Little  Caroline  promised  to  do  her  duty, 
and  her  daily  conduct  justified  the  fond 
hopes  of  her  parents.  The  little  family 
lived  happy  and  content,  and  contributed, 
not  less  by  example  than  by  word  and 
counsel,  to  make  the  villagers  and  the 
peasants  around  them,  live  in  harmony 
and  peace,  and  promote  the  general  hap- 
piness. 

But  the  war,  which,  at  the  close  of  the 
last  century,  had  desolated  the  fair  banks 
of  the  Rhine,  at  last  approached  this  quiet 
village,  which  had  hitherto  been  the  abode 


THE    CHERRIES.  193 

of  peace  and  domestic  bliss.  The  village 
was  taken  and  retaken,  several  times,  by 
friends  and  foes,  and.  of  course,  suffered 
severely.  At  one  time  the  enemy,  who 
were  in  great  want  of  provisions,  plunder- 
ed it  so  dreadfully,  that  they  left  scarcely 
a  morsel  of  bread  to  the  inhabitants.  But 
they  were  expelled  again.  The  Germans 
had  attacked  them  with  great  courage  at 
break  of  day,  and  penetrated  to  the  heart 
of  the  village.  Here,  the  battle  raged 
fearfully — the  discharge  of  small-arms  was 
incessant,  while  the  cannon  thundered 
from  the  hills  on  the  opposite  sides  of  the 
village.  Balls  and  shells  whizzed  about 
the  mayor's  dwelling,  and  several  houses 
at  the  extremity  of  the  village  caught  fire. 
The  moment  the  discharge  of  musketry 
slackened,  the  father  made  strenuous  exer- 
tions to  extinguish  the  flames  ;  his  wife 
stood  wringing  her  hands,  her  eves  raised 


194 


THE   CHERRIES. 


in  prayer  to  heaven,  and.  by  her  side,  at 
the  window,  little  Caroline  was  kneeling, 
praying  fervently  with  her  mother.  It 
was  now  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon. 
A  ring  was  heard  at  the  house  door.  The 
mother  looked  out  of  the  window.  She 
saw  an  officer  of  hussars  standing  at  the 
door,  holding  his  horse  by  the  reins.  "  Oh  ! 
thank  God,"  said  she,  "  he  is  a  German." 
Caroline  ran  to  open  the  door,  and  was 
followed  by  her  mother.  The  officer  had, 
in  the  mean  time,  tied  his  horse  to  a  tree. 
"  Oh,"  said  he,  in  a  friendly  tone,  "  how 
dreadfully  frightened  you  appear,"  when 
he  saw  their  pale  faces.  "  Cheer  up," 
said  he,  "  the  danger  is  over :  you  are  safe. 
The  fire  in  the  village,  too,  is  almost  ex- 
tinguished ;  and  your  husband  will  be  here 
in  a  few  moments.  I  beg  you  for  some 
refreshment,  even  if  you  can  give  me  noth- 
ing more  than  a  morsel  of  bread  and  a  drink 


THE   CHERRIES.  195 

of  water.  Then  entering  the  parlor,  he 
laid  his  sword  in  a  corner,  and  wiped  the 
reeking  perspiration  from  his  forehead.  "  It 
was  sharp  work,"  said  he,  "  but  thank  God, 
we  have  conquered." 

The  news  and  the  visiter  were  like  an 
angel  from  heaven  to  poor  Caroline  and 
her  mother.  There  were  a  few  bottles  of 
good  old  Rhenish  wine  still  remaining, 
which  the  mother  had  concealed  under 
the  sand,  in  which  their  winter  vegetables 
were  preserved.  These  had,  fortunately, 
escaped  the  hands  of  the  plunderers.  She 
produced  a  flask  of  the  wine  and  some  rye 
bread,  excusing  herself,  at  the  same  time, 
for  not  having  any  thing  better.  "  Enough, 
enough ;"  said  the  officer,  eating  the  bread 
with  a  hearty  relish,  "  this  is  the  first  mor- 
sel I  have  tasted  this  day." 

Caroline  ran  and  brought  in,  on  a  white 
porcelain  plate,  some  of  the  ripest  cherries. 


196 


THE   CHERRIES. 


"  Cherries !"  exclaimed  the  officer,  "  they 
are  a  rarity  in  this  district.  How  did  they 
escape  the  enemy  ?  All  the  trees  in  the 
country  around  are  stripped." 

"  The  cherries,"  said  the  mother,  "  are 
from  a  little  tree  in  Caroline's  flower-gar- 
den, which  was  planted  on  her  birthday. 
It  is  but  a  few  days  since  they  became 
ripe  ;  the  enemy,  perhaps,  did  not  notice 
the  little  tree." 

"  And  is  it  for  me  you  intend  the 
cherries,  my  dear  child  ?"  asked  the 
officer.  "  Oh,  no,  you  must  keep  them. 
It  were  a  pity  to  take  one  of  them  from 
you." 

"  How  could  we  refuse  a  few  cherries," 
said  Caroline,  "  to  the  man  that  sheds  his 
blood  in  our  defence  ?  You  must  eat  them 
all,"  said  she,  while  the  tears  streamed 
down  her  cheeks :  "  do,  I  entreat  you — 
eat  them  all." 


He  took  some  of  the  cherries,  and  laid 
them  on  the  table,  near  his  wine-glass. 
But  he  had  scarcely  placed  the  glass  to 
his  lips,  when  the  trumpet  sounded.  He 
sprung  up  and  girded  on  his  sword. 
"  That's  the  signal  to  march,"  said  he : 
';  I  cannot  wait  one  instant."  The  moth- 
er stood  before  him,  with  the  wine-glass 
2# 


IDS 


THE   CHERRIES. 


in  her  hand,  and  pressed  him  to  drink. 
Caroline  had  wrapped  the  cherries  in  a 
roll  of  white  paper,  and  insisted  he  should 
put  them  in  his  pocket.  "  The  weather  is 
very  warm,''  said  she,  "  and  even  cherries 
will  be  some  refreshment." 

"  But  I  have  no  pocket  to  put  them  in," 
said  the  officer.  "  See,  I  carry  all  my 
baggage  about  me.  I  am  as  heavily  laden 
as  a  packhorse." 

"  Ah !"  said  Caroline,  "  it  will  be  easy 
to  find  a  little  room  for  the  cherries." 

So  hard  did  she  press  the  poor  officer, 
that  he  was  obliged  to  surrender,  and  taking 
out  a  pocket-book  which  he  placed  under 
his  vest,  the  cherries  were  safely  deposited 
in  his  pocket. 

"  Oh  !"  said  he,  with  emotion,  *'  what  a 
happiness  it  is  for  a  soldier,  who  is  often 
obliged  to  snatch  each  morsel  from  unwil- 
ling hands,  to  meet  with  a  generous  and 


THE   CHERRIES.  199 

benevolent  family  !  What  a  pity  that  I 
cannot  remain  some  time  with  you !  I 
wish  it  were  in  my  power,  my  dear  child, 
to  give  you  some  pledge  of  my  gratitude ; 
but  I  have  nothing-,  not  so  much  as  a  sin- 
gle  groat.  You  must  be  content  with  my 
thanks."  With  these  words,  he  sprung 
into  his  saddle,  and  once  more  bidding 
Caroline  and  her  mother  an  affectionate 
farewell,  he  spurred  rapidly  out  of  sight. 

The  joy  of  the  good  family  for  their 
happy  liberation,  was,  alas,  of  short  con- 
tinuance. Some  weeks  after,  a  dreadful 
battle  was  fought  near  the  village,  which 
was  reduced  to  a  heap  of  ruins.  The 
mayor's  house  was  burned  to  the  ground, 
and  all  his  property  destroyed.  Father, 
mother,  and  daughter,  fled  away  on  foot, 
and  wept  bitterly  when  they  looked  back 
on  their  once  happy,  but  now  blazing  vil- 
lage. 


The  country  fell  into  the  hands  of  the 
enemy.  The  brave  mayor,  who  was  de- 
votedly attached  to  his  native  land,  and 
loyal  to  his  prince,  was  very  fortunate  in 
having  escaped  with  his  life.  He  had  not 
the  slightest  idea  of  returning  to  his  con- 
quered country,  so  he  retired  to  a  distant 
town,  and  lived  there  in  very  great  dis- 
tress. His  own  prince  was  a  homeless 
exile,  and  could  not  give  him  any  assist- 


THE   CHERRIES. 


201 


ance.  The  mayor  endeavored  to  obtain 
a  livelihood  as  a  clerk  or  scrivener  ;  his 
wife  worked  at  dressmaking  and  millinery; 
and  Caroline,  who  soon  became  skilful  in 
all  such  matters,  faithfully  assisted  her. 
Thus  they  endeavored  to  support  them- 
selves independently. 

Countess  von  Buchenhain,  who  had,  for 
some  time,  been  residing  in  the  town,  gave 
them  much  employment.  She  had  given 
an  order  for  a  bonnet,  and  little  Caroline 
was  at  her  door  with  it,  early  in  the  morn- 
ing, at  the  appointed  hour.  The  chamber- 
maid told  her  that  the  countess  had  com- 
pany ;  her  sister  and  family  having  come 
the  evening  before  to  visit  her.  The  maid 
took  the  bonnet,  and  after  praising  it  high- 
ly, told  Caroline  to  wait  a  few  moments, 
and  disappeared.  After  some  delay  she  re- 
turned. "  Oh,"  said  she,  '"the  bonnet  pleased 
every  person — the  two  young  ladies   say 


20.2 


THE   CHERRIES. 


they  must  have  such  a  one  :  come  with  me 
at  once  ;  you  will  get  many  orders."  She 
then  conducted  Caroline  to  the  garden, 
where  the  countess  and  her  visiters  were 
taking  coffee  in  the  large  summer-house. 

Caroline  entered.  The  two  young  la- 
dies were  still  in  raptures  with  the  bonnet. 
Their  mother  gave  orders  for  three  bon- 
nets, and  passed  the  highest  encomiums 
on  the  blue  flowers,  which  were  the  work 
of  Caroline's  own  hands. 

"  The  bonnet  and  flowers,"  said  the  count- 
ess, "are  beautiful.  Caroline  has  great  taste. 
But  the  prudence  and  modesty  of  my  young 
friend,  as  I  must  call  her,  deserve  more 
praise  than  her  skill  and  taste  in  millinery." 
The  countess  now  related  poor  Caroline's 
misfortunes,  and  praised  the  unwearied  in- 
dustry with  which  she  helped  to  support 
her  poor  parents. 

The  count  was  standing  with  his  broth- 


THE   CHERRIES.  203 

er-in-law,  the  colonel,  at  some  distance 
from  the  door  of  the  bower.  The  colonel, 
a  fine-looking  man,  in  a  splendid  uniform, 
and  with  a  star  on  his  breast,  overheard 
the  conversation.  He  took  his  cigar  from 
his  mouth,  and,  coming  up,  looked  closely 
at  Caroline.  "  My  heavens !"  said  he, 
"you  must  be  the  daughter  of  the  mayor 
of  Rebenheim  :  how  tall  you  have  grown ! 
I  should  scarcely  have  recognised  you — 
though  we  are  old  acquaintances." 

Caroline  stood  there  abashed,  looking 
full  in  the  face  of  the  stranger,  her  cheeks 
covered  with  blushes.  Taking  her  gently 
by  the  hand,  he  conducted  her  to  his  wife, 
who  was  sitting  near  the  countess.  "  See, 
Amelia,"  said  he,  "  this  is  the  young  lady 
who  saved  my  life  ten  years  ago,  when  she 
was  only  a  child." 

"  How  can  that  be  possible  ?"  asked 
Caroline,  in  amazement. 


204  THE   CHERRIES. 

"It  must,  indeed,  appear  incomprehen- 
sible to  you,"  answered  the  colonel  ;  "  but 
do  you  remember  the  hussar  officer  that 
rode  up,  one  day,  on  his  smoking  horse, 
to  your  father's  house  in  Rebenheim  ?  do 
you  remember  the  cherries  which  you 
kindly  gave  him  ?" 

"  Oh,  was  it  you  ?"  exclaimed  Caroline, 
"while  her  face  beamed  with  a  smile  of  re- 
cognition. "  Thank  God,  you  are  alive — 
but  how  I  could  have  done  any  thing 
towards  saving  your  life,  I  cannot  under- 
stand." 

"  In  truth  it  would  be  impossible  for  you 
to  guess  the  great  service  you  did  to  me," 
said  he,  "  but  my  wife  and  my  daughters 
know  it  well.  I  wrote  to  them  of  it  at 
once  ;  and  I  look  upon  it  as  one  of  the 
most  remarkable  occurrences  of  my  life." 

"  And  one  that  I  ought  to  remember 
better  than  any  other  event  of  the  war," 


THE   CHERRIES.  205 

said  his  lady,  rising,  and  affectionately  em- 
bracing Caroline. 

"  Well,"  said  the  countess,  "  neither  I 
nor  my  husband  ever  heard  the  story. 
Please  give  us  a  full  account  of  it." 

"  Oh  !  it's  easily  told,"  said  the  colonel. 
"  I  entered  the  house  in  which  Caroline 
and  her  parents  dwelt,  hungry  and  thirsty 
— and,  to  tell  the  plain  truth,  I  begged  for 
some  bread  and  water.  They  gave  me  a 
share  of  the  best  they  had — and  did  not 
hesitate  to  do  so,  though  their  village  and 
themselves  were  in  the  greatest  distress. 
Caroline  robbed  every  bough  on  her  cher- 
ry-tree to  refresh  me.  Fine  cherries  they 
were — and,  as  I  am  an  honest  man,  the 
only  ones  probably  in  the  whole  country. 
But  the  enemy  did  not  give  me  time  to 
eat  them — I  wTas  obliged  to  mount  in  a 
hurry.  Caroline  insisted,  with  the  kindest 
hospitality,  that  I  should  take  them  with 


206  THE  CHERRIES. 

me,  but  that  was  no  easy  matter.  My 
horse  had  been  shot  under  me  the  day  be- 
fore. I  snatched  whatever  I  could,  in  a 
hurry,  from  my  knapsack,  and  thrusting 
them  into  my  pockets,  I  fought  on  foot, 
until  a  hussar  gave  me  his  horse.  All 
I  was  worth  was  in  my  pockets ;  so  that, 
to  make  room  for  the  cherries,  I  was 
obliged  to  take  the  pocket-book  out  of  my 
pocket,  and  place  it  here  beneath  my  vest. 
The  enemy,  who  had  been  driven  back, 
made  a  feint  of  advancing  on  us,  and  I  led 
down  my  hussars  on  their  horse  in  gallant 
style.  But  suddenly  we  found  ourselves 
in  front  of  a  body  of  infantry,  concealed 
behind  a  hedge.  One  of  them  fired  at  me, 
and  the  fellow  had  taken  good  aim,  for  the 
ball  struck  me  here  on  the  breast.  But  it 
rebounded  from  the  pocket-book — other- 
wise I  should  have  been  shot  through  the 
body,  and  have  fallen  dead  on  the  spot. 


THE  CHERRIES.  207 

"  Tell  me,"  said  he,  in  a  tone  of  deep 
emotion,  "  was  not  that  little  child  an  in- 
strument, in  the  hands  of  God,  to  save  me 
from  death  ?  am  I  right  or  not,  when  I 
give  Caroline  the  credit  of  having  saved 
my  life  ?  Her  must  I  thank,  that  my  Ame- 
lia is  not  a  widow,  nor  my  daughters  or- 
phans ;  that  I  now  stand  here  smoking  my 
cigar,  and  enjoying  the  face  of  this  lovely 
earth." 

All  agreed  with  him.  His  wife,  who 
had  Caroline's  hand  locked  in  her  own 
during  the  whole  narrative,  now  pressed 
it  affectionately,  and  with  tears  in  her  eyes. 
"You,  then,"  said  she,  "were  that  good 
angel,  that  averted  such  a  terrible  misfor- 
tune from  our  family,"  Her  two  daugh- 
ters also  gazed,  with  pleasure,  at  Caroline. 
"  Every  time  that  we  ate  cherries,"  said 
the  younger,  "  we  spoke  of  you  without 
knowing  you." 


208 


THE   CHERRIES. 


"  Oh,  how  happy  we  are,"  said  the  elder, 
"  that  our  fond  prayer  has  been  heard  at 
last !  often  we  prayed  that  we  might  meet 
you. 

The  two  young  ladies  then  placed  Caro 
line  between  them,  and  poured  out  coffee 
for  her  in  a  beautiful  gilded  porcelain  cup. 

But  the  colonel  had  become  pensive  and 
thoughtful. 

"  You  are  always  praising  my  feats  of 
arms,"  said  he,  "  but  what  is  man — what 
can  he  do  ?  But  for  that  plate  of  cherries, 
[  had  Ions  since  mouldered  in  the  church- 
yard  at  Rebenheim,  beneath  a  tombstone, 
bearing  my  name  as  lieutenant,  and  another 
would  now  be  colonel  in  my  place.  The 
star  upon  my  breast,  my  fame,  and  my 
fortune,  I  owe  to  that  handful  of  cherries, 
or,  rather  to  the  hand  of  God,  who  em- 
ployed the  child  to  save  the  soldier,  and 
to  crown  him  with  victory." 


THE   CHERRIES.  209 

"  We  shall  meet  again,"  said  the  colonel, 
turning  suddenly  to  Caroline.  "At  present 
I  have  some  business  to  attend  to  with  my 
brother-in-law."  The  two  gentlemen  re- 
tired ;  Caroline  remained  some  time  longer, 
and  then  took  her  leave  of  the  countess, 
who  saluted  her  affectionately. 

In  the  mean  time  the  colonel  had  retired 
to  a  corner  of  the  garden,  with  his  brother- 
in-law,  the  Count  of  Buchenhaim.  The 
count's  steward  had  died  a  few  months 
ago.  Many  proposals  had  been  made  for 
the  vacant  place.  The  count  did  not  know 
whom  to  choose,  and  had,  this  very  morn- 
ing, been  consulting  the  colonel  on  the 
subject.  The  selection  could  not  be  de- 
feried  any  longer,  as  business  had  accumu- 
lated, since  the  death  of  the  last  occupant. 

"  Come,  close  the  matter  at  once,'"'  said 

the  colonel,  '-'appoint  Ehrenberg.    It  is  not 

without  the  design  of  Providence  that  his 
3* 


210  THE   CHERRIES. 

little  daughter,  Caroline,  came  here  this 
morning ;  and  that  I  remained  here  last 
night  to  have  the  happiness  of  meeting  her 
before  the  place  was  disposed  of."  "  It  is 
true,"  said  the  count,  "  we  are  under  great 
obligations  to  this  family.  Ehrenberg  is 
said  to  be  an  honest  and  intelligent  man ; 
yet  as  I  have  seen  him  but  a  few  times,  we 
must  deliberate."  "What  the  deuce  do 
you  want  to  deliberate  about  ?"  asked  the 
colonel,  in  his  usual  impassioned  mood. 
"  Search  all  Germany,  and  you  cannot  find 
a  better  man.  Have  I  not  twice,  during 
my  campaigns,  ridden  to  Rebenheim,  in 
order  to  see  and  thank  the  good  child  that 
saved  my  life — and  have  I  not  made  all 
possible  inquiries  after  her  ?  I  could  not 
discover  where  Caroline  and  her  parents 
were  living,  but  I  heard  other  things  that 
made  my  heart  warm.  The  whole  village 
was  unanimous  in  praise  of  Caroline  and 


.J 


THE   CHERRIES. 


211 


her  parents.  Gray-haired  men  came  up 
to  me  with  tears  in  their  eyes,  '  Oh,  sir/ 
said  they,  c  Mr.  Ehrenberg  was  a  pattern 
of  justice,  and  honor,  and  charity.  We 
never  could  make  a  due  return  for  his  ser- 
vices. Wherever  he  may  be,  and  what- 
ever may  be  his  circumstances,  he  cannot 
but  prosper.  He  deserves  this  for  his  con- 
duct towards  every  person  among  us.'  So 
said  the  peasants  :  make  haste,  now,  I  say 
— take  the  pen  and  write  the  appoint- 
ment— I  will  carry  it  to  him,  myself,  at 
once." 

The  count  consented  ;  the  order  was 
drawn  out  and  duly  signed,  and  the  colonel 
was  happier  than  he  had  been  for  many 
years :  his  heart  never  throbbed  more 
proudly  and  joyfully  in  the  glow  of  vic- 
tory, than  on  this  happy  morning. 

While  this  affair  was  thus  happily  set- 
tled, Caroline,  never  suspecting  the  good 


fortune  that  awaited  her,  was  returning 
home  in  the  highest  spirits.  "  Well,  my 
little  maid,"  said  the  father,  "  what  news  ? 
Why  are  your  eyes  glistening  with  joy  ?" 
Caroline  told  how  the  cherries  had  been 
the  means  of  saving  the  officer's  life.  "May 
God's  providence  be  forever  praised,"  ex- 
claimed the  delighted  parents. 

"  This  is  a  ray  of  hope,"  added  the 
mother  ;  "  perhaps  brighter  days  are  com- 
ing." 


THE    CHERRIES. 


•213 


"  Yes,  Caroline,"  said  the  father,  "  your 
kind,  good  temper  when  a  child  may  per- 
haps render  you  the  prop  and  consola- 
tion of  your  parents  in  their  declining 
years." 

"  If  I  had  this  kind,  good  temper," 
answered  Caroline,  modestly,  "  it  is  only 
an  inheritance  derived  from  my  dear  pa- 
rents." 

While  they  were  speaking  on  the  events 
of  the  morning,  suddenly  they  heard  the 
colonel's  voice,  and  the  clanking  of  his 
sword,  as  he  bounded  up  the  steps.  "  Good 
morning,  master  steward  of  Buchenhaim," 
said  he,  bursting  into  the  room. 

"  Buchenhaim — what  ?"  asked  Ehren- 
bersr. 

<:  Just  so,"  said  the  colonel,  taking  out 
his  pocket-book.  "I  never  carry  this  ex- 
cept on  great  occasions,  such  as  the  present, 
when  I  found  my  friend  Caroline.     Look 


214 


THE   CHERRIES. 


here,"  said  he,  pointing  to  a  rent  in  the 
cover — "  here  the  ball  struck — Caroline 
has  probably  told  you  about  it." 

"  Delighted  we  were  to  hear  it,"  said 
Ehrenberg. 

The  colonel  then  opened  the  pocket- 
book  and  took  out  a  paper.  "  Read  that," 
said  he  to  Ehrenberg.  Ehrenberg  read, 
and  was  amazed  to  find  himself  duly  ap- 
pointed, by  legal  deed,  steward  of  Buchen- 
haim,  with  a  good  salary  of  a  thousand 
thalers,  and  several  other  perquisites.  The 
good  man,  who,  up  to  this  time,  had  suffer- 
ed much  from  the  change  in  his  circum- 
stances, as  was  visible  enough  from  his 
threadbare  coat,  could  scarcely  believe 
his  own  eyes.  "  Read  it  aloud,"  said  the 
colonel :  "  your  wife,  and  my  preserver,  the 
good  Caroline,  appear  anxious  to  hear  it." 
Ehrenberg  read  the  document  aloud,  in  a 
voice  trembling  from  emotion  ;  and  moth, 


THE   CHERRIES. 


215 


er  and  daughter  wept  for  joy,  at  the  happy 
announcement. 

"  Hussars  do  things  quickly,"  said  the 
colonel.  "  A  few  hours  ago,  no  man  in 
the  world  dreamed  that  you  would  be 
steward  in  Buchenhaim.  But  the  end 
must  be  in  keeping  with  the  beginning. 
Come  then  with  me  at  once,  that  I  may 
present  you  to  my  brother-in-law."  Eh- 
renberg  begged  a  few  moments  to  change 
his  dress.  ':  I  give  you  a  quarter  of  an 
hour,"  said  the  colonel :  "within  that  time 
I  expect  you  at  my  chamber  in  my  broth- 
er-in-law's house.  And  you,  too,"  said  he 
to  Caroline  and  her  mother,  "  prepare  at 
once  to  remove.  Your  lodgings  here  are 
so  confined.  I  have  never  seen  worse 
quarters,  except  during  my  campaigns. 
But  you  will  find  it  very  different  in  the 
house  which  your  father  will  occupy  in 
Buchenhaim.     The  dwelling  is  large  and 


216  THE    CHERRIES. 

commodious,  with  a  fine  garden  attached, 
well  stocked  with  cherry-trees.  Next 
Monday  you  will  be  there — and  this  very 
day  you  must  start.  What  a  happy  feast 
we  shall  have  there  !  not  like  the  hasty 
meal  you  gave  the  hussar  officer,  amid  the 
thunder  of  cannon,  and  the  blazing  roofs 
of  Rebenheim.  Do  not  forget  to  have 
cherries,  dear  Caroline,  for  the  dessert.  I 
think  they  will  be  full  ripe  by  that  time." 

With  these  words  the  colonel  hurried 
away,  to  escape  the  thanks  of  this  good 
family,  and,  in  truth,  to  conceal  his  own 
tears.  So  rapidly  did  he  disappear,  that 
Ehrenberg  could  scarcely  accompany  him 
down  the  steps. 

"  Oh  Caroline !"  said  the  happy  father 
when  he  returned,  "  who  could  have  ever 
imagined,  that  the  little  cherry-tree  I  plant- 
ed in  the  flower-garden,  the  day  you  were 
born,  would  ever  produce  such  good  fruit." 


THE   CHERRIES.  217 

"  It  was  the  Providence  of  God/'  ex- 
claimed the  mother,  clasping  her  hands. 
"  I  remember,  distinctly,  the  first  day  the 
blossoms  appeared  on  that  tree,  when  you 
and  I  went  out  to  look  at  it,  and  little 
Caroline,  then  an  infant  in  my  arms,  was 
so  much  delighted  with  the  white  flowers. 
We  resolved  there  to  educate  our  daughter 
piously,  and  prayed  fervently  to  God,  that 
she,  who  was  then  as  full  of  promise  as 
the  blossoms  on  the  tree,  might,  by  His 
grace,  one  day  be  the  prop  of  our  old  age. 
That  prayer  is  now  fulfilled,  beyond  our 
fondest  anticipation.  Praise,  forever,  be 
to  the  name  of  God  !" 

"  Yes,"  said  the  father  :  "  no  pious  and 
hearty  prayer  of  parents,  for  the  good  of 
their  child,  is  ever  rejected.  May  He, 
who  then  listened  to  our  prayer,  as  we 
stood  near  that  cherry-tree  in  Rebenheim. 
now  accept  our  heartfelt  thanks !" 


218 


THE   CHERRIES. 


Caroline  joined  heartily  in  their  grateful 
prayers.  "  Eternal  thanks  to  Thee,  my 
God,"  she  exclaimed,  "  whose  love  and 
solicitude  for  man,  exceed  the  fondest  and 
most  ardent  love  of  parents  for  their  chil- 
dren." 


NEW-YEAK'S  EYE. 

Little  Gretchen,  little  Gretchen, 
Wanders  up  and  down  the  street, 

The  snow  is  on  her  yellow  hair. 
The  frost  is  at  her  feet. 


The  rows  of  long  dark  houses. 

Without  look  cold  and  damp. 
By  the  struggling  of  the  moonbeam, 

By  the  flicker  of  the  lamp. 

The  clouds  ride  fast  as  horses, 
The  wind  is  from  the  north. 

And  no  one  cares  for  Gretchen, 
And  no  one  looketh  forth. 


220 


NEW-YEAR'S  EVE. 


The  board  is  spread  with  plenty, 
Where  smiling  kindred  meet, 

But  the  frost  is  on  the  pavement, 
And  the  beggars  in  the  street. 

With  a  little  box  of  matches, 
She  could  not  sell  all  day, 

And  the  thin,  thin  tatter'd  mantle, 
The  wind  blows  every  way, — 

She  clingeth  to  the  railing, 
She  shivers  in  the  gloom, — 

There  are  parents  sitting  snugly 
By  the  firelight  in  the  room  ; 

And  groups  of  busy  children 
Withdrawing  just  the  tips 

Of  rosy  fingers  press'd  in  vain 
Against  their  bursting  lips, 

With  grave  and  earnest  faces, 
Are  whispering  each  other, 


NEW-YEAR'S   EVE. 


221 


Of  presents  for  the  New- Year  made 
For  father  or  for  mother. 

But  no  one  talks  to  Gretchen, 
And  no  one  hears  her  speak. 

No  breath  of  little  whisperers 
Comes  warmly  on  her  cheek  ; 

No  little  arms  are  round  her, 
Ah  me  !  that  there  should  be, 

With  so  much  happiness  on  earth, 
So  much  of  misery  ! 

Sure  they  of  manv  blessings 
Should  scatter  blessings  round, 

As  laden  boughs  in  Autumn  fling 
Their  ripe  fruits  to  the  ground. 

And  the  best  love  man  can  offer 
To  the  God  of  love,  be  sure, 

Is  kindness  to  His  little  ones, 
And  bounty  to  His  poor. 


222 


NEW-YEAR'S   EVE. 


Little  Gretchen,  little  Gretchen. 

Goes  sadly  on  her  way ; 
There's  no  one  looketh  out  at  her. 

There's  no  one  bids  her  stay. 

Her  home  is  cold  and  desolate. 

No  smile,  no  food,  no  fire, 
But  children  clamorous  for  bread, 

And  an  impatient  sire. 

So  she  sits  down  in  an  angle, 
Where  two  great  houses  meet, 

And  she  curleth  up  beneath  her, 
For  warmth,  her  little  feet ; 

And  she  looketh  on  the  cold  wall, 

And  on  the  colder  sky, 
And  wonders  if  the  little  stars 

Are  bright  fires  up  on  high. 

And  she  heard  a  clock  strike  slowly, 
Up  in  a  far  church  tower, 


NEW- YEAR'S   EVE.  223 

With  such  a  sad  and  solemn  tone, 
Tolling  the  midnight  hour ! 


The  chilly  winter  morning 
Breaks  up  in  the  dull  skies, 

On  the  city  wrapp'd  in  vapor, 
On  the  spot  where  Gretchen  lies. 

The  night  was  wild  and  stormy, 
The  morn  is  cold  and  gray, 

And  2:ood  church  bells  are  ringing 
Christ's  circumcision  day. 


And  holy  men  were  praying 

In  many  a  holy  place, 
And  little  children's  angels 

Sing  songs  before  Christ's  face. 

In  her  scant  and  tatter'd  garment, 
With  her  back  against  the  wall, 


224 


NEW-YEAR'S  EVE. 


She  sitteth  cold  and  silent, 
She  answers  not  their  call. 

They  have  lifted  her  up  fearfully. 

They  shudder'd  as  they  said, — 
"  It  was  a  bitter,  bitter  night — 

The  child  was  frozen  dead  !" 


The  angels  sung  their  greeting 
For  one  redeem'd  from  sin  ; 

Men  said, — "  It  was  a  bitter  night : 
Would  no  one  let  her  in  ?" 


"  Look  there,  if  ever  you  opcE  your  mourn  to  any 
person  but  me  and  my  mother,  we  will  murder  you 
more  cruelly  than  that  man  there." — Page  275, 


,ed  a  lonely 
and  sorrow- 
ful life  on  her 
paternal  es- 
tate. Mis- 
fortunes had 
fallen  fast  and  heavy  on  her.  Two  years 
before  she  had  lost  a  beloved  husband, 
and,  accompanied  by  her  three  little  chil- 
dren, she  had  followed  his  remains  to  the 
grave.     Within  another  year  two  of  those 


228  THE  DUMB  GIRL. 

children — two  beautiful  and  promising 
boys — were  carried  off  by  the  measles, 
and  once  more  the  widow's  tears  flowed 
over  the  fresh  clay  as  she  fixed  the  white 
garlands  on  their  graves.  In  the  begin- 
ning of  this  year  news  came,  that  her  only 
brother,  a  brave  officer,  had  fallen  in  de- 
fence of  his  country,  and  this  new  sorrow 
opened  all  her  wounds,  and  made  them 
bleed  afresh.  One  consolation  alone  re- 
mained for  her  on  this  earth — her  only 
daughter,  Melina — a  lovely  child — about 
eight  or  nine  years  old. 

One  day,  as  they  were  sitting  at  the 
work-table,  in  the  parlor,  the  mother  sew- 
ing, according  to  her  custom,  and  her 
little  daughter,  whom  she  herself  instruct- 
ed, reading  aloud  from  a  book  that  lay 
open  on  the  table,  a  stranger  entered. 
He  held  a  paper  in  his  hand,  and  after 
having  saluted  them,  he  said,  that  this  was 


THE  JDUMB  GIRL.  229 

a  claim  for  a  small  debt  of  some  thousand 
dollars,  due  to  him  by  the  late  Mr.  von 
Grunau.  The  claim  appeared  highly  im- 
probable to  the  widow,  especially  as  the 
stranger  was  very  badly  dressed,  and  had 
rather  the  appearance  of  a  vagabond,  than 
one  who  could  lend  so  much  money.  But 
she  was  afraid,  because  none  of  her  ser- 
vants were  in  the  house.  The  butler  had 
gone  to  town  to  see  his  mother,  who  was 
dangerously  ill ;  the  cook  had  accompa- 
nied him ;  and  the  other  servants  were 
saving  hay  in  the  meadow.  Mrs.  von 
Grunau  ordered  Melina  to  call  the  stew- 
ard, who  came,  and  declared  positively 
that  the  claim  was  a  forgery.  "  I  know, 
beyond  all  doubt,"  said  he,  "  that  Mr.  von 
Grunau  did  not  owe  one  penny  at  his 
death.  That  signature  is  a  forgery."  The 
stranger  appeared  transported  with  fury, 
and  with  shocking  imprecations,  poured 


230  THE  DUMB  GIRL. 

out  a  torrent  of  calumnious  invectives  on 
the  deceased.  The  mother,  not  wishing 
that  her  daughter  should  hear  such  hor- 
rible things,  ordered  her  to  go  into  the 
garden.  The  stranger  then  began  to  give 
a  tedious  and  confused  account  of  the 
time  and  place  where  the  debt  was  con- 
tracted, stating  that  Mr.  von  Grunau, 
when  at  college,  had  borrowed  the  money 
from  him.  At  last  the  steward  lost  all 
patience.  "  Begone,"  said  he,  "  you  are 
a  liar ;  if  my  good  master  had  owed  you 
ten  dollars,  instead  of  your  large  claim, 
you  would  have  come  long  ago  to  demand 
the  money,  which  you  seem  to  want  very 
sadly,  and  not  waited  until  now — two 
years  after  his  death."  But  the  stranger 
persisted  in  urging  his  claim,  and  could 
not  be  induced  to  stir.  Hot  words  passed 
between  him  and  the  steward,  and  brought 
on  a  long  altercation.     The  widow  was 


THE  DUMB  GIRL.  231 

sorry  that  her  servants  were  not  at  home 
to  drive  away  the  man  by  force,  or  take 
him  into  custody.  After  some  time  he 
went  off,  threatening  still  to  bring  his 
claim  before  the  courts. 

Mrs.  von  Grunau  was  much  annoyed 
by  this  intrusion,  and  walked  into  the 
garden  to  see  her  daughter.  But  no  trace 
of  the  child  could  be  found.  A  very 
rapid  river  flowed  outside  the  hedge ;  on 
the  banks,  at  a  point  where  they  were 
very  steep,  she  found  Melina's  little  water- 
ing-pot. The  poor  mother  almost  fainted 
in  despair.  A  shepherd-boy  came  up  with 
Melina's  straw  hat. 

"  The  hat,"  he  said,  "  had  floated  down 
the  river,  until  it  was  caught  by  a  willow 
branch.  He  knew  it  by  the  fine  blue 
ribands." 

"  O  God  !"  exclaimed  the  poor  mother, 
raising  her  pale  face  and  clasped  hands  to 


232 


THE  DUMB  GIRL. 


heaven,  "  my  darling  child  has  fallen  into 
the  river." 

"Oh,"  said  the  boy.  with  a  shudder, 
"the  poor  little  girl  is  certainly  drowned. 
You  see  there — the  grass  is  beaten  from 
the  place  where  the  water-pot  lay,  down 
to  the  river's  brink.  Alas,  kind  Melina,  it 
was  only  yesterday  evening  you  gave  me 
bread  and  butter !" 

The  agitated  mother  cried  out :  "  Run, 
run  quickly — call  the  people  :  perhaps  they 
may  save  her  ?"  Herself  ran  to  the  stew- 
ard— and  told  him  what  had  happened. 
The  whole  village  was  out  in  search  of 
the  child.     But  they  sought  in  vain. 

The  disconsolate  mother  now  spent  sor- 
rowful days  and  sleepless  nights.  "Oh!" 
she  would  often  exclaim,  "  my  dear  hus- 
band and  my  three  children  are  gone  from 
me,  and  are  with  Thee  now  in  heaven, 
my  God.     My  noble  brother,  too,  died  far 


THE  DUMB  GIRL.  233 

away  from  his  native  land.  I  am  left 
alone  and  comfortless.  My  property  has 
no  charms  for  me :  the  world  is  dead  to 
me.  My  sole  pleasure  is,  to  think  of  the 
day  which  shall  unite  us  in  heaven.  My 
only  hope  is  beyond  the  grave.  Heaven 
was,  at  all  times,  my  most  ardent  desire  ; 
but  now,  with  greater  ardor  than  ever— I 
pray  that  I  may  soon  find  rest  there." 


CHAPTER    II. 

MAJOR  VON  BERG. 

Mr.  von  Berg,  the  widow's  brother, 
though  supposed  to  be  dead,  was  still 
alive  :  he  was  captain  of  a  regiment  of 
hussars ;  and  had  been  thrown  from  his 
horse  in  a  terrible  battle,  and  was  aban- 
doned by  his  soldiers  in  the  confusion  of 


234  THE  DUMB  GIRL. 

their  flight.  They  believed  that  he  was 
killed,  but  he  was  only  severely  wounded. 
Being  carried  away  prisoner  to  a  distant 
fortress  in  the  enemy's  country,  he  had  no 
means  of  sending  news  to  his  friends,  nor 
did  any  news  come  to  them  from  any 
other  quarter. 

Peace  was  proclaimed :  the  major  was 
liberated,  and  was  returning  home  at  the 
head  of  his  regiment.  They  halted  for  a 
time  at  a  village  on  the  borders  of  a  great 
forest,  in  which  a  friend  of  the  major's 
dwelt.  He  rode  to  his  friend's  castle, 
and  learned  the  sad  tidings  of  his  brother- 
in-law's  death,  but  could  not  get  any  in- 
formation of  his  sister  and  her  children. 

When  the  major  and  his  servant  were 
returning  to  the  camp  in  the  evening, 
through  the  wild  and  wooded  country, 
they  lost  their  way.  Autumn  had  al- 
ready far  advanced.     The  country,  with 


THE  DUMB  GIRL.  235 

its  gloomy  pines,  became,  at  every  step, 
wilder  and  more  savag-e.  For  a  time, 
the  moon,  then  in  her  first  quarter,  threw 
a  flickering  light  through  the  dark  pines, 
waving  their  arms  over  the  travellers' 
path.  But  large  masses  of  dark  clouds 
soon  gathered  over  their  heads :  the  storm 
howled  through  the  forest ;  and  mingled 
rain  and  snow  dashed  in  the  travellers' 
faces.  The  darkness  was  so  great,  that 
not  a  glimpse  of  the  moon  or  sky  could 
be  caught  through  the  trees.  "  Our  hor- 
ses," said  the  major,  at  last,  "  are  so 
tired,  that,  cold  and  frosty  though  it  be,  we 
must  spend  this  night  in  the  forest." 

"  Well,"  answered  his  servant,  Haska, 
"  it  is  not  our  first  time.  As  we  have 
nothing  to  eat  or  drink,  we  must  have  a 
fire,  at  all  events."  He  accordingly  dis- 
mounted ;  and  having  tied  his  horse  to  a 
tree,  sought  some  sheltered  spot,  but  all 


236  THE  DUMB  GIRL. 

his  endeavors  to  light  a  fire  were  fruitless. 
The  fallen  twigs  and  branches  were  too 
wet ;  and  he  gave  up  in  despair.  Sud- 
denly, during  a  pause  in  the  howling  of 
the  storm,  they  heard  the  barking  of  a 
dog.  "  Thank  God,"  said  the  major,  "  we 
cannot  be  far  from  a  village  or  house." 
"  No,"  answered  his  servant :  "  let  us 
mount  again,  and  ride  in  the  direction 
where  the  dog  barked." 

After  a  short  ride,  they  saw  a  light 
glimmering  through  the  trees.  They  rode 
towards  it,  and  came  to  a  solitary  house, 
surrounded  with  a  high  wall,  enclosing  a 
garden,  the  yard,  and  stabling.  The  re- 
flection of  a  large  fire  from  the  kitchen, 
flung  a  reddish  glare  on  the  old  trunks  and 
moss-grown  arms  of  the  trees.  The  house 
appeared  to  be  very  strongly  built :  the 
windows  were  secured  with  massive  iron 
grating :    and    several   parts  of  the   wall, 


THE   DUMB  GIRL. 


237 


from  which  the  plaster  had  fallen  off.  were 
incrusted  with  green  and  yellow  moss 
or  weeds.  Both  riders  dismounted,  and 
leading  their  horses  by  the  bridles,  walked 
round  the  wall  to  find  the  door.  Haska 
knocked  loudly :  after  a  pause,  a  small 
lattice  in  the  door  was  opened,  a  light  ap- 
peared, and  a  voice  within  asked,  "  Who 
are  you  ?"  "  Travellers,"  answered  Has- 
ka, "  who  have  lost  our  way  in  the  forest." 
"Ha,  ha,"  muttered  the  voice,  "you  come 
at  an  untimely  hour.  How  many  are 
you  ?"  "  Two  and  our  two  horses,"  an- 
swered Haska.  "  Good,"  was  the  reply  : 
"four  in  all."  An  old,  wrinkled  face,  was 
then  thrust  through  the  opening,  to  take  a 
view  of  the  travellers. 

"Ha!"  thought  the  major,  "if  I  had  not 
seen  the  dress,  I  would  swear  it  was  a 
grisly  old    hussar."     He    drew  nearer    to 

the  door,  and  asked  to  be  admitted. 

2* 


238 


THE    DUMB   GIRL. 


"  Since  you  are  such  a  handsome  voung 
fellow,"  said  the  old  hag,  "  we  could  not 
shut  the  door  against  you."  She  un- 
locked the  door,  and  the  major  entered,  fol- 
lowed by  Haska  and  the  two  jaded  horses. 
"  There's  the  stable,"  said  she,  pointing  to 
a  door :  "  you  will  find  a  lantern  inside. 
Bring  it  here  until  I  light  it ;  you  have 
room  and  hay  enough,  but  our  supply  of 
oats  is  out." 

Haska  led  the  horses  into  the  stable. 
The  major,  also,  wished  to  see  how  they 
were  tended,  and  found  every  thing  to  his 
taste.  The  old  woman  locked  the  door 
very  carefully,  and  brought  in  the  keys. 

'  Now,  my  fine  young  gentleman,"  said 
she,  "come  into  our  hall." 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  answered  the  ma- 
jor :  "  and,  good  landlady,  get  a  warm 
supper  in  haste  :  I  am  cold  as  a  wet  dog, 
and  hungry  as  a  wolf." 


THE   DUMB  GIRL.  039 

"  With  pleasure,"  said  she  :  "  but  I  am 
very  sorry  that  I  cannot  treat  you  as  I 
wish  :  my  son  is  not  at  home  :  I  must  do 
as  well  as  I  can.  I  limp — as  you  see :  to 
lay  the  table,  and  cook,  and  bring  up  the 
dishes,  is  too  much  for  me — I  must  call 
down  Ursula,  my  little  grandchild.  The 
poor  child  is  dumb,  and  cannot  utter  one 
syllable ;  but  her  hearing  is  very  good  ; 
and,  for  so  young  a  child,  she  is  of  great 
use  to  us.  My  son  will  be  home  in  about 
half  an  hour's  time,  and  then  we  can 
amuse  and  entertain  you  more  hospi- 
tablv.''" 


240 


THE   DUMB   GIRL. 


CHAPTER    III 


THE  DUMB  GIRL. 


The  major  threw  off  his  wet  mantle, 
and  sat  opposite  the  large  blazing  fire. 
The  old  hostess  introduced  Ursula,  telling 


her  to  salute  the  strangers.  The  poor 
girl  did  so.  "  Prepare  the  table  now," 
said  the  old  woman,  giving  her  a  table- 
cloth.    The  girl  wore   a   black   gown,  a 


THE   DUMB  GIRL.  241 

red  shawl  drawn  over  her  shoulders,  and 
a  cap  and  apron  white  as  snow.  She  ap- 
peared pale  and  sorrowful  ;  and  excited 
the  warmest  sympathy  of  the  kind-hearted 
soldier,  who  could  not  behold,  without  pity, 
so  young  and  beautiful  a  face  clouded 
with  grief.  "God  bless  you,  dear  girl," 
said  he :  "  what  a  pity  that  you  are  dumb 
— I  wish  I  could  have  a  few  words  from 
you."  The  girl  cast  one  kind,  but  sor- 
rowful glance  at  the  major ;  pressed  her 
finger  to  her  lips  ;  prepared  the  table,  and 
retired. 

In  a  few  minutes  she  brought  in  the 
supper.  The  major  rose  and  seated  him- 
self at  table.  Contrary  to  his  expecta- 
tions, the  table  linen  and  napkins  wrere 
of  the  finest  quality,  and  white  as  snow. 
The  spoons  and  other  articles  were  silver ; 
and  the  supper  itself  was  excellent.  He 
was  loud  in  his  praise  of  the  attendance. 


242  THE  DUMB  GIRL. 

"  Good !"  said  he,  "  I  have  found  out  ex- 
cellent quarters  :  I  can  make  some  amends 
for  the  fatigues  of  the  road."  Once  more 
the  girl  cast  a  look  at  him  of  the  most  in- 
describable sorrow,  burst  into  tears,  and 
withdrew. 

"Astonishing,"  thought  he,  "that  the 
child  is  so  sad.  But  to  hear  and  not  to 
be  able  to  speak,  must  be  very  afflicting 
to  one  so  young,  especially  a  girl.  Still, 
there  must  be  some  other  cause  for  her 
grief.  I  pity  the  poor  thing  from  my 
heart ;  and  would  wish,  above  all  things, 
that  she  could  tell  me  her  sorrow." 

After  some  time  Ursula  brought  some 
roast  venison  and  salad,  and  secretly 
slipped  a  piece  of  paper  into  the  major's 
hand.  She  glanced  first  at  the  paper, 
then  at  the  kitchen- window,  and  retired. 
The  major  understood  that  he  was  to  read 
the  paper  secretly,  for,  on  looking  to  the 


THE  DUMB  GIRL. 


243 


window  that  opened  into  the  kitchen,  he 
found  that  the  old  woman  was  watching 
him.  He  unfolded  the  paper  without  stir- 
ring from  the  table,  and  read  the  following 
words.  They  had  been  scrawled  with  a 
pencil,  and,  evidently,  with  a  trembling 
hand. 

"  You  have  fallen  into  a  den  of  murder- 
ers :  you  shall  be  murdered  this  night : 
be  on  your  guard  :  God  be  with  you — 
rescue  me." 

The  major  was  thunderstruck.  He 
doubted  whether  he  should  fly  at  once,  or 
hold  himself  on  his  guard  where  he  was. 
He  had  still  some  doubts  whether  the  in- 
formation was  true. 

Haska  came  into  the  chamber  with  the 
portmanteau,  from  which  he  was  about  to 
take  what  his  master  wanted  for  the  night. 
The  major  spoke  to  him  in  a  low  tone, 
such   as   could  not  be  heard  bv  the  old 


244 


THE  DUMB  GIRL. 


woman,  telling  him  of  the  contents  of  the 
note,  and  asking  his  advice  on  the  best 
plan  to  escape,  or  meet  the  danger  with 
which  they  were  threatened.  The  trusty 
servant  shook  from  head  to  foot.  "  Come, 
come,"  said  the  major,  "  we  must  not  lose 
courage.  Though  it  be  no  laughing  mat- 
ter, we  must  laugh,  as  if  we  were  in  the 
best  possible  humor.  If  we  look  so  gloomy 
the  old  hag  will  certainly  suspect  us." 

Haska  instantly  burst  into  a  loud  and 
hearty  laugh,  as  if  the  major  had  said 
something  very  pleasant.  "  O,"  said  the 
major,  "  that's  too  loud  ;  bring  my  pair  of 
double-barrelled  pistols.  They  must  stand 
the  first  charge — and  then  my  hope  is  in 
the  edge  of  this  good  sabre.  Examine, 
also,  whether  there  may  not  be  something 
suspicious  in  the  house,  either  arms  or 
stolen  goods ;  or  perhaps  some  servants 
lurking  concealed,  so  that  it  would  be  bet- 


THE  DUMB  GIRL. 


245 


ter  for  us  to  escape  if  possible.  I  will 
keep  the  hag  engaged  in  the  mean  time, 
and  prevent  her  from  watching  you.  As 
soon  as  she  is  ready  in  the  kitchen,  I  will 
call  her  and  keep  her  in  chat  here." 

Haska    went    as    he  was  ordered,    and 
after  a  short  delay  returned  with  the  pis- 


tols, and  laid  them  on  the  table.  He  was 
pale  and  agitated.  "  Oh !  I  have  seen 
enough,"  said  lie.     "  There  is  a  small  room 


246  THE  DUMB  GIRL. 

near  the  stable  for  servants  ;  I  examined  it 
closely,  and  saw  something  like  a  trapdoor 
under  the  bed ;  I  removed  the  bed,  raised 
the  door,  and  looked  down — and  what  did 
I  see,  but  heaps  of  rich  clothes,  silks,  satins, 
all  daubed  with  blood.  A  splendid  waist- 
coat, which  certainly  must  have  belonged 
to  some  distinguished  person,  was  bored 
through  with  a  dagger,  just  over  the  heart ; 
and  the  marks  of  a  stream  of  blood  were 
clotted  on  the  white  vest,  around  and  be- 
low the  rent.  Horrible,  horrible — we  are 
in  a  den  of  murderers.  There  is  no  chance 
of  escape  by  flight.  The  door  is  secured 
with  strong  bolts  and  locks,  and  the  keys 
are  concealed.  The  walls  are  very  high — 
we  have  no  ladder,  and  even  though  we 
had,  how  could  we  leave  our  horses  here. 
I  think  the  robbers  would  have  us  taken 
again  in  a  very  short  time." 

"  I  would   not  be  afraid  of  a  dozen  of 


THE 

DUMB 

GIRL. 

247 

them/'  s 

aid   the 

major, 

"  still 

I  think  it 

better  to 

ask  the 

keys 

quietly 

of  the  old 

hag,  and 

ride  out 

once 

more  in 

the  forest. 

I  do  not 

wish  to 

shed  blood  when  I  can 

avoid  it.' 

> 

CHAPTER    IV. 

THE   HOST   AND   HOSTESS. 

"  Come  here,  good  landlady,"  cried  the 
major,  in  a  loud  voice. 

"  What  do  you  want  in  such  a  hurry  ?" 
she  asked,  limping  into  the  room.  But 
just  at  this  moment,  three  loud  and  heavy 
knocks  were  heard  at  the  door.  "  Ah," 
said  she,  "  the  master  is  come,  I  must  let 
him  in  before  I  hear  what  you  have  to 
order."  The  major,  with  a  candle  in  his 
hand,  accompanied  her,  as  if  to  light  her 
to   the   door,  but  in   reality  to   ascertain 


it-..- 


248  THE  DU31B  GIRL. 

whether  the  master  was  coming  alone. 
He  was  alone.  The  major  returned  with 
him  to  the  room,  and  sat  down  at  the 
table  on  which  the  pistols  were  lying. 
He  entered  into  an  animated  conversation 
with  his  host  on  the  late  war,  and  appeared 
perfectly  free  from  all  suspicion  or  fear. 

In  the  mean  time  Haska,  having  fed 
the  horses,  came  in  and  sat  down  at 
another  table.  The  major  said  to  him 
secretly  : — "  Eat  your  supper  quickly  and 
prepare  my  chamber.  Take  my  port- 
manteau with  you.  Retire  then  to  your 
own  room  as  if  you  were  going  to  bed, 
but  be  on  the  watch.  When  you  hear 
me  leaving  this  room,  come  to  my  sleep- 
ing-room, and  don't  forget  your  pistols  and 
sabre." 

Haska  went  with  the  portmanteau  to 
his  master's  room,  and  after  returning, 
pretended  to  be  very  sleepy,  and  yawned 


[t^T^Zl. 


THE  DUMB  GIRL.  249 

heavily.  "  You  strain  your  jaws/'  said 
the  host,  "as  if  you  would  swallow  me 
hair  and  hide."     Haska  laughed. 

"  I  would  do  so  with  pleasure,"  said  he  ; 
"  but  in  truth,  I  am  very  drowsy ;  I  rose 
before  daylight  this  morning  and  have 
been  on  the  road  all  day.  I  will  sleep 
the  whole  night  as  sound  as  a  badger. 
Awaken  me  in  the  morning,  to  feed  the 
horses ;  but  if  you  don't  rap  loudly,  I  cer- 
tainly will  not  hear  you."  The  host  ap- 
peared quite  pleased,  and  lighted  Haska  to 
the  servant's  room,  near  the  stable. 

When  the  host  returned,  the  major  re- 
newed the  conversation,  but  observing 
that  the  man  threw,  now  and  then,  a 
glance  at  the  pistols,  "  Do  you  like  them, 
good  host?"  he  asked. 

"  Very  much,  indeed,"  was  the  answer  ; 

"  but  why  have  you  not  left  them  in  your 

holsters  ?     You    have    no    need  of  them 
3* 


250 


THE  DUMB  GIRL. 


here.  As  I  am  an  honorable  man,  you 
are  under  the  safest  roof  in  the  world." 

"Your  declaration  is,  I  am  sure,  per- 
fectly true.  Your  house  is  as  safe  as 
yourself  are  honorable.  But  it  has  al- 
ways been  my  habit  to  take  care  of  my 
pistols.  Both  are  charged  to  the  muzzle  ; 
they  might  easily  do  some  harm." 

"  I  will  put  them  in  that  press  there  in 
the  wall,  and  you  can  keep  the  key,"  said 
the  man. 

"  O,  not  at  all,"  said  the  major,  "  don't 
give  yourself  that  trouble.  I  always  have 
had  the  custom,  or  the  folly,  of  bringing 
my  pistols  to  my  bedchamber,  and  leaving 
them  on  a  table  by  my  bedside." 

The  host  appeared  pensive  for  a  few 
moments,  and  paced  up  and  down  the 
room.  "What  can  this  be,"  said  he  at 
last,  "  it  is  only  now  I  observed  it ;  you 
have   nothing   but  water   to   drink.     My 


THE  DUMB  GIRL.  251 

old  mother  is  very  forgetful.  She  gave 
you  no  wine ;  I  must  bring  you  some  of 
the  best  in  my  cellar,  and  we  shall  have  a 
glass  together." 

He  went  out  to  the  kitchen  and  said,  in 
a  loud  voice,  to  his  mother,  "  Mother,  you 
forgot  to  give  wine  to  your  noble  guest. 
Bring  a  lamp  and  come  with  me.  We 
must  have  some  of  that  butt  which  I  re- 
serve for  honorable  guests." 

"  What  does  the  villain  mean,"  thought 
the  major,  "  to  poison  me,  or  give  me  a 
sleeping  draught  ?" 

But,  before  he  had  time  to  think  more, 
the  host  rushed  to  the  door,  exclaiming, 
"  O,  good  sir,  come  quickly  to  my  help, 
for  Heaven's  sake :  my  poor  mother, 
while  carrying  the  candle,  fell  down  in 
the  cellar.  I  don't  know  whether  she  is 
dead  or  alive :  come  help  me  to  carry  the 
poor  creature  up." 


252 


THE  DUMB  GIRL. 


"  Most  willingly,"  said  the  major ;  "  take 
that  candle  on  the  table  and  show  me  the 
way." 

They  came  to  the  cellar,  which  the  ma- 
jor perceived  had  a  trapdoor.  "  O,  look 
down,"  said  the  man,  "  my  poor  mother  is 
below  and  gives  no  stir  or  sign  of  life." 

The  major  knew  not  whether  the  wo- 
man had  really  fallen,  or  whether  this  was 
a  trick  to  lock  himself  in  the  cellar.  He 
stood  at  the  head  of  the  stone  steps,  and 
said,  "  Go  before  me  with  the  light,  lest  I 
might  break  my  neck  going  down." 

The  man  descended.  The  major  now, 
for  the  first  time,  perceived  the  edge  of  a 
dagger,  glittering  under  his  coat.  "  I 
know  what  the  villain  means,"  thought 
the  major,  "he  will  stab  me  with  that  dag- 
ger, while  I  am  engaged  carrying  the  old 
hag."  Suddenly  he  gave  the  robber  a 
thrust,  which  whirled    him   down    to  the 


THE  DUMB   GIRL. 


yao 


bottom  of  the  steps,  exclaiming  at  the 
same  time,  "  Who  digs  a  pitfall  for  an- 
other falls  into  it  himself."  The  robber 
rolled  over  his  mother,  who  suddenly 
started  up,  and  seizing  him  by  the  hair, 
screamed  aloud,  "  You  wretch,  I  fear  you 
have  broken  a  couple  of  my  ribs."  The 
major  let  fall  the  trapdoor,  and  secured 
it  above  with  strong  iron  bolts. 


CHAPTER    V. 

THE   DUMB  GIRL    SPEAKS. 

The  major  ran  to  the  door,  and  shouted 
"  Haska,  Haska  \"  Haska  came,  as  an  old 
hussar  comes  to  the  assault,  wTith  a  pistol 
in  each  hand,  and  his  naked  sabre  across 
between    his    teeth.      '-'You   don't   need 


— w—— — wm 


254  THE  DUMB  GIRL. 

your  arms,"  said  the  major,  laughing,  "  the 
birds  are  caught.  The  hag  and  her  son 
are  safely  locked  in  the  cellar." 

"  Victory  !"  shouted  Haska  ;  "  the  for- 
tress is  ours.  We  must  reconnoitre  now, 
to  be  on  the  defensive  if  necessary.  The 
keys  must  be  found  first,  and  kept  se- 
curely." 

After  a  long  search  Haska  found  them 
in  the  kitchen,  under  an  old  pot.  The 
jolly  hussar  put  them  on  a  plate,  and  with 
a  low  bow,  presented  them  to  his  master, 
as  if  he  were  surrendering  the  keys  of  a 
captured  fortress. 

They  first  examined  all  the  apartments 
in  the  lower  story  of  the  house,  and  then 
ascended  the  narrow  flight  of  stone  steps, 
and  went  through  all  the  dark  passages, 
lest  some  persons  might  be  concealed  in 
them.  As  they  were  passing  by  a  door, 
they  heard  some  person  praying  most  ear- 


THE  DUMB  GIRL.  255 

nestly.  "  O,  good  God."  said  a  soft  sweet 
voice,  "  have  mercy  on  the  noble  soldier, 
and  his  faithful  servant.  Save  them  and 
save  me  from  this  horrible  house/' 

The  major,  on  opening  the  door,  ex- 
claimed in  amazement,  "  Ursula,  is  it  you 
that  are  praying  so  fervently  ?  I  thought 
you  were  dumb." 

"  O  no,  good  sir,  others  pretended  that," 
said  she.  "  The  wicked  wretches  in  this 
house  murdered  a  strange  man,  and  threat- 
ened to  do  the  like  to  me,  if  I  ever  ut- 
tered  one    syllable   in  the   presence  of  a 


stranger 


"  Cheer  up,"  said  the  major,  "  the  mas- 
ter and  mistress  can  do  you  no  more 
harm  ;  they  are  settled." 

"  Oh,  heavens !"  said  the  poor  child ; 
"  surely  you  have  not  killed  them  ?" 

"No,"  answered  the  major;  "I  have 
only  locked  them  up  in  the  cellar.     Come 


256 


THE  DUMB  GIRL. 


down  with  us  now,  and  let  us  be  merry, 
and  tell  me  how  you  happened  to  fall  into 
this  horrible  house." 

"  O,  sir,"  said  the  poor  child,  "  you  are 
not  safe  yet.  There  are  twenty  other 
robbers  in  this  forest  yet,  and  twelve  of 
them  are  expected  here  this  night.  We 
were  getting  dinner  for  them.  O  !  take 
care — do  not  let  the  horrible  fellows  into 
the  house." 

"  Come,  Haska,"  said  the  major,  "  we 
must  take  the  proper  measures  to  defend 
ourselves.  I  think  they  cannot  enter,  ex- 
cept through  the  door." 

"No,"  answered  the  girl;  "all  the  win- 
dows are  well  secured  with  iron  bars.  There 
is  a  balcony  to  the  house,  which  the  robbers 
call  their  lighthouse.  The  master  sets  up 
a  light  there  whenever  he  expects  his  as- 
sociates, to  show7  them  the  way.  When 
they  come,  they  always  give  three  heavy 


THE   DUMB  GIRL. 


257 


knocks  at  the  door,  and  then  the  old  wo- 
man or  her  son  opens  the  door." 

'•'  Well,"  said  the  major,  "  if  the  dozen 
do  not  come  in  a  body,  we  will  let  them 
in.  If  only  half  a  dozen  come,  it  would 
be  only  child's  sport  for  us.  We  must 
give  them  a  warm  reception.  Run  and 
see  whether  the  lamp  be  lighted  in  the 
balcony." 

Haska  ran,  and  returned,  saying  with  a 
smile,  "  Our  host  and  hostess  are  very 
punctual  people,  they  lighted  a  fresh  torch 
before  they  went  down  into  the  cellar. 
The  light  is  so  strong  and  bright,  that  we 
can  easily  see  how  many  of  the  villains 
will  come  at  the  same  time  to  the  door." 

"  Right,  Haska,"  said  the  major.  "  Come 
down,  now,  into  the  yard,  and  we  will 
make  all  our  preparations."  The  brave 
soldier  threw  off  his  military  cloak,  re- 
marking that  the  sight  of  the  hussar  uni- 


258  THE  DU3IB  GIRL. 

forms  would  not  be  encouraging  to  the 
robbers.  "  Get  cords  now,"  he  added, 
"  with  which  we  can  bind  the  fellows." 

Suddenly  the  three  raps  were  heard  at 
the  door.  Haska  ran  up  to  the  balcony, 
and,  descending  in  a  minute,  told  the 
major,  softly,  that  there  were  only  two 
outside.  "  Open  the  door,"  said  the  major, 
"  and  stand  behind  it.  Leave  the  first  that 
comes  in  to  me  ;  you  take  the  second. 
Lay  down  the  lantern  on  the  ground." 

Haska  opened  the  door.  The  major 
seized  the  first  robber  by  the  collar,  clap- 
ped a  pistol  to  his  breast,  and  cried  out  in 
a  voice  of  thunder,  "  Surrender,  or  you 
are  a  dead  man  !"  The  wretch  flung  him- 
self on  his  knees,  and  begged  his  life. 
Haska  brought  his  man  to  the  ground  in  a 
twinkling.  The  two  robbers  were  bound 
hand  and  foot,  and  lay  stretched  on  the 
ground.     "  If  you  attempt  to  stir,  or  utter 


THE   DUMB  GIRL. 


259 


one  word,"'  said  the  major,  "  I  will  shoot 
you  without  mercy." 

Three  other  heavy  raps  were  again 
heard  at  the  door.  It  was  from  two  rob- 
bers, who  came  loaded  with  heavy  packs 
on  their  shoulders.  They  were  admitted, 
overpowered,  and  bound  like  their  com- 
rades. The  brave  officer  and  his  sturdy 
servant  stood  at  their  post  until  near 
morning.  But  no  other  robber  came,  nor 
gave  any  sign  of  approach. 

"  I  don't  knowr  why  they  are  not  com- 
ing," said  Haska ;  "  perhaps  they  have 
smelt  the  roast  meat.  But  the  villains 
will  not  escape  their  punishment." 


260 


THE   DUMB   GIRL. 


CHAPTER    VI. 


THE  UNCLE. 

When  morning  arose  over  the  black 
forest  of  pines,  Haska  said,  "  Now  we  may 
retire."  But  the  major  told  him  that  all 
danger  was  not  over  yet. 

"  You  heard,"  said  he,  "  that  there  are 
twenty  robbers  in  the  forest  still.  Before 
we  could  look  about  us,  a  ball  from  a  bush 
or  a  thicket  might  bring  us  down.  We 
must  consult  on  what  is  best  to  be  done." 

Suddenly  Haska  cried  out,  "  I  hear  the 
tramp  of  a  troop  of  horse,  I  fear  their  whole 
force  of  horse  and  foot  is  coming  on  us." 
He  ran  up  to  the  window,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  came  down,  bounding  with  joy. 
"  They  are  our  own  men — a  whole  troop 
of  hussars !" 

Haska  threw  open  the  doors,  and  the 


THE  DUMB  GIRL. 


261 


hussars  came  in.  They  saluted  the  major, 
and  their  comrade,  with  all  the  cordiality 
of  soldiers.  "  We  were  in  great  trouble 
for  you,  major,"  said  the  officer ;  "  you  are 
always  so  punctual  at  your  post,  that  when 
we  found  you  absent  last  night,  at  the  ap- 
pointed hour,  we  feared  you  had  either 
lost  your  way  in  the  forest,  or  fallen  into 
the  hands  of  the  robbers  that  infest  this 
district.  We  mounted  our  horses,  and  rode 
through  the  forest,  and  perceiving,  by  the 
light  of  our  torches,  the  tracks  of  two 
horses,  '  That's  the  track  of  the  major's 
horse,'  said  I,  pointing  to  one.  '  No  other 
horse,  far  or  near,  has  a  hoof  like  that ;'  so 
we  followed  the  tracks  and  they  brought 
us  here." 

"  It  is  the  mercy  of  Heaven,"  said  the 
major,  "  that  we  have  met  again  ;  I  thank 
you  heartily  for  your  zeal." 

"  Ah,"  said  Haska    to   the   hussars,   "  I 


262  THE  DUMB  GIRL. 

know  now  why  the  robbers  did  not  come. 
You  frightened  them." 

The  major  gave  a  brief  account  of  what 
had  happened,  and  then  gave  his  orders. 
"  Guard  these  four  prisoners,  and  bring  up 
the  old  woman  and  her  son  from  the  cellar. 
Search  the  whole  house,  break  in  all  the 
doors,  chests,  and  presses :  you  must  find 
heaps  of  stolen  goods  here  ;  make  free  use 
of  the  wine  and  provisions  with  which  the 
house  is  well  supplied."  The  hussars  glad- 
ly obeyed  all  his  orders,  especially  the  last, 
and  soon  dispatched  the  roast  meat  that 
had  been  prepared  for  the  robbers'  dinner. 

The  major  himself  went  to  the  room 
where  he  had  left  his  young  preserver,  and 
brought  her  to  the  chamber  lighted  from 
the  balcony.  "  Now,  my  dear  girl,"  said 
he,  "  sit  here  on  this  sofa,  and  tell  me  your 
history ;  how  you  happened  to  fall  into  the 
hands  of  these  ruffians ;  for  I  am  confident 


THE  DUMB  GIRL. 


263 


you  cannot  be  a  daughter  of  the  robber — 
a  grandchild  of  that  malignant  old  hag. 
Tell  me  your  history,,  dear  Ursula." 

"  My  name  is  not  Ursula,"  said  the  girl, 
"  my  name  is  Melina.  I  was  stolen  from 
my  mother  and  carried  to  this  place.  My 
father  died  two  years  before  my  capture 
— he  was  Count  von  Grunau." 

"  Good  heavens  \"  exclaimed  the  major, 
clasping  his  hands,  "  are  you,  then,  my  sis- 
ter's child  ?  I  am  your  uncle— a  thousand 
blessings  on  you,  dear  Melina.  When  I 
was  going  to  the  war,  you  were  a  baby, 
and  I  took  you  in  my  arms  and  blessed 
you.  You  are  an  angel,  whom  God  has  em- 
ployed to  save  me  from  a  horrible  death." 
The  warm-hearted  soldier  clasped  his 
hands,  and  stood  for  some  time  with  his 
eyes  devoutly  raised  to  heaven.  Melina, 
too,  prayed  and  wept.  "  Praise  be  to  God," 
said  the  major,  (i  that  He  has  conducted 


264  THE  DUMB  GIRL. 

me  to  you.  0,  what  a  happiness  for  my 
beloved  sister  !"  The  uncle  and  niece  em- 
braced affectionately,  and  shed  torrents  of 
happy  tears. 

"  But/'  asked  the  major,  "  how  were  you 
stolen  from  your  mother  ?" 

"  Oh,"  she  answered,  "  a  terrible  man 
came  into  my  mother's  house,  showed  a 
paper  to  her,  and  cursed  and  swore  most 
horribly.  My  mother  ordered  me  to  go 
into  the  garden.  Another  terrible  man 
caught  me  in  the  garden,  stopped  my 
mouth  with  a  handkerchief,  and  carried 
me  into  a  near  wood,  where  a  carriage  was 
waiting.  His  companion  soon  came,  and 
they  brought  me  here." 

The  major  conducted  his  niece  down  to 
the  yard,  where  the  prisoners  were  lying. 
"  That  man,  with  the  grizzly  black  head, 
showed  the  paper  to  my  mother,"  said  Me- 
lina,  "  and  this  man,  with  the  red  hair  and 


THE  DUMB  GIRL. 


265 


whisjters,  carried  me  away  out  of  the  gar- 
den." 

The  major  breakfasted  with  Melina ;  and 
gave  orders  to  his  men  to  get  ready  for 
the  march.  He  took  Melina  on  horseback 
with  himself.  The  prisoners  were  con- 
ducted, with  their  arms  pinioned,  between 
a  file  of  hussars.  Four  soldiers  were 
left  to  guard  the  house,  and  keep  the 
stolen  goods,  until  the  owners  claimed 
them. 

The  major  delivered  up  his  prisoners 
to  the  magistrates  in  the  nearest  town. 
The  whole  forest  was  surrounded  and 
examined,  by  more  than  two  hundred  hus- 
sars. The  entire  band  of  robbers  was 
captured.  During  the  inquisitions,  which 
lasted  for  a  year,  the  following,  among 
other  facts,  was  elicited :  "  Mr.  von 
Klauenberg,  the  sole  surviving  relative 
of  Mrs.  von  Grunau,  a  rich  man,  but  a 


236 


THE  DUMB  GIRL. 


great  miser,  having  heard  that  von  Gru- 
nau  and  his  two  children  were  dead,  and 
that  the  major  had  fallen  in  battle,  thus 
leaving  Melina  sole  heiress  of  her  moth- 
er's large  property,  had  instigated  the 
robbers  to  carry  off  the  poor  child.  '  The 
guilt  of  her  blood,'  said  he,  '  I  don't  wish  to 
have  on  my  head ;  but  carry  off  the  child, 
and  keep  her  close  in  some  secure  place, 
where  she  will  never  be  heard  of  more  : 
guard  her  securely:  don't  let  her  escape.' * 

The  captain  of  the  gang  undertook  the 
business.  It  was  he  that  brought  the  pa- 
per to  the  mother,  while  his  companion 
was  prowling  outside  to  seize  the  child. 
It  was  he  that  placed  the  watering-pot  on 
the  bank  of  the  river,  and  hung  the  bon- 
net upon  the  willow  branch,  before  he 
carried  off  Melina. 

The  captain  and  all  his  gang  were  con- 
demned to  death,  and  the  wicked  kinsman 


THE  DUMB  GIRL. 


>67 


to  a  very  large  fine,  and  ten  years'  impris- 
onment. 


CHAPTER   VII. 

THE  HAPPY  MOTHER. 

The  major  resigned  his  commission ; 
had  his  niece  dressed  suitably  to  her  sta- 
tion in  life ;  and  conducted  her  home  to 
Grunau.  As  his  sister  believed  him  to  be 
dead,  he  took  care  to  have  her  warned, 
beforehand,  of  his  return.  He  resolved 
to  present  himself  first,  and  break  the 
news  to  her  that  her  daughter  was  alive. 
He  came  to  the  old  steward's  house,  who 
was  almost  beside  himself  with  joy  on 
seeing  both  alive.  It  was  new  life  to  him 
— he  could  not  find  words  to  express  his 
feelings,  but  hastened  away  to  the  castle. 

Madam  von  Grunau  was  seated  on  her 


268  THE  DUMB  GIRL. 

sofa,  pale  and  disconsolate.  When  she 
heard  that  her  brother  was  alive  and  com- 
ing to  see  her,  she  would  have  hurried 
away  to  meet  him — but  he  entered  at  the 
moment.  She  ran  towards  him  and  fell 
into  his  arms.  "  O  !  dearest  brother,"  said 
she,  "  you  are  really  alive :  God  be  praised  : 
I  am  not  alone  in  the  world !" 

The  major  sat  down  beside  her  on  the 
sofa,  and  asked  her  to  tell  him  all  that  had 
occurred,  since  he  went  to  the  wars. 
With  many  tears  she  told  him  how  her 
husband  died,  after  a  long  and  painful  ill- 
ness, which  he  bore  with  true  Christian  pa- 
tience ;  how  her  two  sons,  whom  the  ma- 
jor knew  and  tenderly  loved,  were  carried 
off  by  the  measles :  and  how  her  sole  sur- 
viving child,  her  daughter  Melina,  was 
drowned  in  the  river. 

The  major  having  listened  to  her  with 
great  sympathy,  added,  at  the  close,  "  It  is 


THE  DUMB   GIRL. 


269 


not  probable  that    Melina  was    drowned, 
since  you  have  not  found  her  body." 

"Oh!''"  exclaimed  the  mother,  her  sor- 
rowful face  lighted  up  with  joy,  "  Oh  !  if 
she  were  still  alive,  and  if  I  could  see  her 
but  once  before  I  died,  how  happy  would 
I  be  r 

"  Believe  me,"  said  he,  "  she  is  alive. 
Klauenberg  has  surely  had  some  hand  in 
this  matter.  Melina  is  not  drowned.  She 
was  carried  away  by  robbers,  and  is  de- 
tained by  them  in  some  of  their  haunts." 

"  Better !"  exclaimed  the  mother,  her 
tears  flowing  still  more  copiously, — "  far 
better  to  have  her  dead,  than  living 
amongst  wicked  men.  Better  to  have  her 
dead,  than  to  have  her  lost  both  in  body 
and  soul." 

"  Dearest  sister,"  said  the  major,  "  youi 
truly  noble  sentiments  affect  me  deeply. 
Believe  me,  she  is  still  the  same  innocent, 


270 


THE  DUMB  GIRL. 


pure,  angelic  Melina,  which  you  knew 
her  to  be.  You  can  have  the  proof  your- 
self. She  has  been  actually  rescued  from 
the  robbers'  hands." 

The  mother  started  to  her  feet,  and  ex- 
claimed, "  Gracious  heaven,  what  do  I 
hear  ?  what  new  light  is  breaking  on  me  ? 
O,  dear  brother,  tell  me  all.  You  have 
seen  her — have  you  not  ?  perhaps  you 
have  her  here  ?  come,  come,  dear  brother, 
bring  me  to  her  at  once." 

The  major  opened  the  door.  Melina 
rushed  in  ;  threw  herself  into  her  moth- 
er's arms,  and  could  say  no  more,  than, 
"  Mother,  dearest  mother  !" 

"  Melina,  dearest  daughter — restored  to 
my  arms — thanks,  thanks  forever,  to  Thee, 
my  God !"  Thus  the  delighted  mother 
expressed  her  joy,  while  she  embraced  her 
beloved  child. 

"Come,    my   daughter,"   said    she,    at 


THE  DUMB  GIRL. 


271 


length,  "  sit  here  between  me  and  your 
uncle,  on  the  sofa,  and  tell  me  how  you 
lived  among  the  wicked  robbers." 

"  When  I  was  seized  by  the  robber,  and 
carried  away  to  the  carriage,  I  thought," 
said  Melina,  "  I  should  have  died  of 
fright.  They  drove  me  to  that  terrible 
house,  where  I  was  very  kindly  received 
by  the  old  woman.  She  said  she  had 
been  expecting  me  anxiously,  for  a  long 
time  before.  She  told  me  not  to  be  cry- 
ing. She  gave  me  a  great  many  sweet 
things — brought  punch  and  coffee,  and 
pressed  me,  with  the  rudest  compliments, 
to  drink  a  glass  to  her  health.  She  con- 
ducted me  to  a  neat  little  chamber  ;  '  Here,' 
said  she,  'this  is  your  bedroom — that  is  as 
clean  and  fine  a  bed  as  you  could  get 
anywhere.'  She  told  me  that  she  could 
bake,  and  boil,  and  roast  for  me,  and 
spoke  on  this  topic  so  often  and  so  hearti- 


272 


THE  DUMB  GIRL. 


ly,  as  if  it  were  the  greatest,  the  only 
happiness  of  man — in  this  world — to  eat 
and  drink.  She  dressed  me  in  the  dress 
of  a  peasant  girl — '  Now,'  said  she,  '  you 
belong  to  us  ;  the  man  of  the  house  is 
your  father,  and  I,  your  grandmother.' 
Both  did  all  in  their  power  to  cheer  me. 
But  I  could  not  like  them — my  heart  was 
always  with  you,  dearest  mother.  Oh ! 
what  a  difference  between  those  people 
and  you !  No  pious  word  ever  fell  from 
their  lips.  No  prayer  either  morning  or 
night,  or  before  or  after  meals.  No  book 
in  the  whole  house.  I  could  scarcely 
speak  to  them ;  I  shunned  and  dreaded 
them.  I  was  never  happier,  than  in  my 
own  little  room,  looking  out  into  the  gar- 
den. There  I  used  to  recall  all  the  good 
instructions,  the  entertaining  stories  I  had 
heard  from  you.  Oh!  how  many  nights 
did   I   pray  there,  when   the   moon   rose 


THE  DUMB  GIRL. 


273 


brightly  over  the  dark  and  lonely  forest, 
and  shone  on  the  gray  walls  and  iron  bars 
at  my  window.  '  Yes,'  I  said,  '  though  I 
am  kept  in  the  company  of  wicked  peo- 
ple, my  heart  can  be  with  God.'  What  a 
happiness,  that  day  or  night,  wherever  we 
are,  we  can  speak  to  God,  and  be  certain 
that  our  prayers  will  be  heard ! 

"  The  two  men,  that  carried  me  away, 
often  came  to  the  house  with  other  com- 
panions, like  themselves.  Their  guests 
were  worse,  even,  than  the  people  of  the 
house.  They  caroused  and  played  cards, 
with  horrible  oaths,  saner  all  sorts  of  bad 
songs,  and  said  many  things  which  set 
them  in  roars  of  laughter — but  which  I 
did  not  understand  :  I  am  sure,  they  must 
have  been  very  bad,  as  they  gave  pleasure 
to  such  abandoned  people.  They  often 
quarrelled — flung  jugs  and  glasses  at  each 

other,    and    threatened    to    murder   each 

5* 


274 


THE  DUMB  GIRL. 


other.  I  used  to  fly,  terrified  and  trem- 
bling, to  my  own  room.  I  resolved  to 
escape  if  possible — but  all  the  windows 
were  secured  with  iron  bars,  and  the  door 
was  always  carefully  locked  and  bolted. 

"  One  night,  a  merchant,  a  kind,  friend- 
ly man,  came  to  spend  a  night  in  the 
house.  He  had  very  valuable  wares  and 
a  large  sum  of  money.  The  robbers  mur- 
dered him.  I  heard  his  screams,  and  ran 
down  to  the  scene.  The  sight  almost  de- 
prived me  of  my  senses.  I  told  the  mur- 
derers, that  it  was  a  horrible  crime,  and 
that  God  would  certainly  punish  them  for 
it.  They  paid  no  attention  to  me ;  but 
charged  me  not  to  say  one  word  on  the 
matter  to  any  mortal.  My  keeper  cried 
out,  '  From  this  moment,  never  open  your 
lips  to  a  stranger — we  will  say  you  are 
dumb.'  He  seized  me  by  the  arm,  drag- 
ged me  over   to  the   bloody  corpse,  and 


THE  DUMB  GIRL. 


275 


said,  with  a  horrible  growl,  '  Look  there — 
if  you  ever  open  your  mouth  to  any  per- 
son, but  me  and  my  mother,  we  will  mur- 
der you  more  cruelly  than  that  man  there.' 
I  ran  to  my  room,  and  throwing  myself 
on  my  knees,  stretched  out  my  hands  to 
heaven,  and  prayed,  cO,  good  and  merci- 
ful God,  Thou  hadst  mercv  on  the  vouns; 
Daniel  in  the  lions'  den.  He  sat  as  tran- 
quil among  the  lions,  as  a  shepherd-boy 
among  his  sheep.  Thou  didst  send  an 
angel  to  rescue  him,  and  brought  him 
forth  from  the  den.  O !  have  mercy  on 
me,  a  poor  girl — save  me  from  those  sav- 
age tigers — send  an  angel  to  my  aid.' 
God  heard  my  prayer  ;  yes,  dearest  moth- 
er, He  sent  an  angel  to  my  relief — your 
beloved  brother." 

'•'  Yes,"  answered  the  mother,  "  God  has 
had  mercy  on  you,  and  on  us  all.  He 
allowed  you  to  be  taken  away  from  me, 


276  THE   DUMB   GIRL. 

as  a  means  of  saving  my  brother's  life  ; 
and  God  sent  you,  dearest  brother,  to  the 
robbers'  den,  to  save  the  life  of  my  daugh- 
ter. It  has  not  been  without  advantage 
to  me,  to  believe  that  my  daughter  was 
dead  ;  for  I  prayed  more  earnestly  and 
frequently,  than  I  otherwise  would  have 
prayed,  and  looked  forward,  with  pious 
hope  and  resignation,  to  heaven.  And 
you,  Melina,  can  learn  this,  at  least,  from 
your  long  residence  in  a  bad  place,  how 
deeply  men  plunge  in  wickedness  when 
they  do  not  rely  on  God — nor  pray,  nor 
hear  good  instruction  or  conversation. 
You  have  learned  a  greater  horror  of 
vice,  and  a  greater  love  for  virtue.  God 
has  comforted  us  all  in  our  afflictions, 
and  turned  our  sorrow  into  joy.  0 !  may 
we  thence  learn  to  believe  that  He  does 
all  for  the  best !  May  we  ever  believe, 
even  in  our  greatest  woes,  that  He  can 


THE  DUMB  GIRL. 


277 


turn  them  to  good ;  and  thank  him  from 
our  hearts,  under  his  most  heavy  visita- 
tions !  Yes,  all  his  ways  are  wisdom  and 
goodness :  to  Him  be  unceasing,  eternal 
thanks." 

'•'Amen,  amen,"  said  the  Major,  and  the 
prayer  was  re-echoed  by  the  good  Me- 
lina. 


-.'...  • 


-- 


